And he struck me lightly on the chest for emphasis. Disregarding his
peculiarities of manner, I wanted to know what all this had to do with
the man being an anarchist.
"Come!" jeered the manager. "If you saw suddenly a barefooted, unkempt
chap slinking amongst the bushes on the sea face of the island, and at
the same time observed less than a mile from the beach, a small schooner
full of niggers hauling off in a hurry, you wouldn't think the man fell
there from the sky, would you? And it could be nothing else but either
that or Cayenne. I've got my wits about me. Directly I sighted this
queer game I said to myself--'Escaped Convict.' I was as certain of
it as I am of seeing you standing here this minute. So I spurred on
straight at him. He stood his ground for a bit on a sand hillock crying
out: 'Monsieur! Monsieur! Arretez!' then at the last moment broke and
ran for life. Says I to myself, 'I'll tame you before I'm done with
you.' So without a single word I kept on, heading him off here and
there. I rounded him up towards the shore, and at last I had him
corralled on a spit, his heels in the water and nothing but sea and sky
at his back, with my horse pawing the sand and shaking his head within a
yard of him.
|