ng anything?"

"No, Tom; I thought you were going to speak."

"No, sir. I was only thinking it seemed precious queer."

"Yes, it does--queer is the word, Tom. I can't quite make it out."

"That's what's the matter with me, sir. Seems so lonesome like. Makes
me feel as if somebody was dead here, and I was precious glad when you
spoke. Something arn't right somehow."

"The place is lonely because the people have taken fright at our coming
and gone off into the forest, I suppose. It is a lonely place, as we
found out for ourselves when we had lost our way."

"Oh, that's it, is it, sir? Well, I'm glad to know it, but somehow that
don't seem quite enough for me. I still keep feeling as something's
wrong, and as I said sir,--don't laugh at me, sir, 'cause I can't help
it. I arn't got a head like you as eggsplains everything for you. I
get a bit silly and puzzled like sometimes, and just now it seems to me
like a man might feel if some one was dead here."

As the sailor spoke he pushed his straw hat back from his forehead and
wiped the big drops of perspiration away.

"Tom," said Murray sharply, "you're about the most superstitious fellow
I ever ran against. You're frightened of shadows."

"Yes, sir, you're right," whispered the man eagerly, and he glanced
sharply about him. "Shadders--that's it, sir; that's just what I am:
things as I can't understand and feel like. I allers was, sir, and fell
foul o' myself for it; but then, as I says to myself, I ain't 'fraid o'
nothing else. I'm pretty tidy and comf'table in the wussest o' storms,
and I never care much if one's under fire, or them black beggars is
chucking their spears at you, because you've got some'at to shoot at
again."

"No, Tom; you're stout enough then."

"Thankye, sir; I am, arn't I? But at a time like this, when you've got
pyson sarpents crawling about over your head, and what's worse, the sort
o' feeling comes over you that you're in a place where as we know, sir,
no end of them poor niggers as was torn away from their homes has come
to a bad end, I'm that sooperstitious, as you call it, that I don't know
which end of me's up'ards and which down. I don't like it, Mr Murray,
sir, and you may laugh at me, sir, but I'm sure as sure that there's
something wrong--some one dead, I believe, and pretty close to us too."

"Not that Mr Allen, Tom?" said Murray, starting, and in spite of his
fair share of common sense, lowering his voice, as for