CHAPTER IX.
THE FLIGHT FROM BUMWOGA.
"This is slow, lad."
"It is trying, Dawson. I wonder how long they expect to keep us here?"
"I'm sure I can't guess, lad,—perhaps until we die of old age."
"And what do you suppose they have done with the others?"
"Can't say as to that either—maybe killed 'em all off and stewed 'em in the pot," and with a voluminous sigh the first mate of the Dart turned over and fell into a light doze.
Dawson and I had been confined in one of the bamboo huts. We were tied fast to a thin palm tree, the top of which waved far above the hut roof. The place was about twelve feet square and was open at two sides. The floor was covered with broken palm leaves and refuse of all sorts, and the whole place was vile-smelling and alive with vermin.
We had been prisoners in the village for three days, and the time seemed like so many years. Twice a day an ugly old negro woman came in to give us meals of rice cakes, fish, and native
67
