Blodgett, coming first to a ridge of rock, stopped high above us like a
shadow cast by the moonlight on the mist.
"Here's the place to make a stand," he cried in his thin voice. "A nat'ral
fort to lay behind. Come, lads, over we go!"
Up on the rock we scrambled, all of us ready to jump down on the other
side, when Neddie Benson called on us to stop, and with a queer cry let
himself fall back the way he had come. Fearing that he was injured, we
paused reluctantly.
"Don't go over that rock," he cried.
"Why not?" Roger asked.
"It gives me a sick feeling inside."
"Stuff!" exclaimed Blodgett. "Behind that rock we'll be safe from all the
heathen in the Chinese Sea."
"The lady she said there'd be trouble," Neddie wailed insistently, "and I
ain't going over that rock. No, sir, not when I feel squeamish like I do
now."
With an angry snort Blodgett hesitated on the very summit of the ledge.
"Come on, come on," he said.
"Listen dah!" the cook whispered.
I thought of savage yells and trampling feet when, crouching on hands and
knees, I listened; but I heard none of them. The sound that came to my ears
was the faint, distant rumble of surf breaking on rocks.
Now Roger spoke sharply: "Steady, men, go slow.
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