Nuttall passed on, upon the understanding that he would go.  But he went in the wrong direction; he went on towards the side of the plantation farthest from the stockade, towards the dense woods that fringed it there.  The overseer was too contemptuous and perhaps too languid in the stifling heat of approaching noontide to correct his course.

Nuttall blundered to the end of the avenue, and round the corner of it, and there ran into Pitt, alone, toiling with a wooden spade upon an irrigation channel.  A pair of cotton drawers, loose and ragged, clothed him from waist to knee; above and below he was naked, save for a broad hat of plaited straw that sheltered his unkempt golden head from the rays of the tropical sun.  At sight of him Nuttall returned thanks aloud to his Maker.  Pitt stared at him, and the shipwright poured out his dismal news in a dismal tone.  The sum of it was that he must have ten pounds from Blood that very morning or they were all undone.  And all he got for his pains and his sweat was the condemnation of Jeremy Pitt.

“Damn you for a fool!” said the slave.  “If it’s Blood you’re seeking, why are you wasting your time here?”

“I can’t find him,” bleated Nuttall.  He was indignant at his reception.  He forgot the jangled state of the other’s nerves after a night of anxious wakefulness ending in a dawn of despair.  “I thought that you....”

“You thought that I could drop my spade and go and seek him for you?  Is that what you thought?  My God! that our lives should depend upon such a dummerhead.  While you waste your time here, the hours are passing!  And if an overseer should catch you talking to me?  How’ll you explain it?”

For a moment Nuttall was bereft of speech by such ingratitude.  Then he exploded.

“I would to Heaven I had never had no hand in this affair.  I would so!  I wish that....”

What else he wished was never known, for at that moment round the block of cane came a big man in biscuit-coloured taffetas followed by two negroes in cotton drawers who were armed with cutlasses.  He was not ten yards away, but his approach over the soft, yielding marl had been unheard.

Mr. Nuttall looked wildly this way and that a moment, then bolted like a rabbit for the woods, thus doing the most foolish and betraying thing that in the circumstances it was possible for him to do.  Pitt groaned and stood still, leaning upon his spade.

“Hi, there!  Stop!” bawled Colonel Bishop after the fugitive, and added horrible threats tricked out with some rhetorical indecencies.

But the fugitive held amain, and never so much as turned his head.  It was his only remaining hope that Colonel Bishop might not have seen his face; for the power and influence of Colonel Bishop was quite sufficient to hang any man whom he thought would be better dead.

Not until the runagate had vanished into the scrub did the planter sufficiently recover from his indignant amazement to remember the two negroes who followed at his heels like a brace of hounds.  It was a bodyguard without which he never moved in his plantations since a slave had made an attack upon him and all but strangled him a couple of years ago.