rmed with foes, besides which, they would
not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so;
they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the
time greatly exhausted by their forced march.

Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at
that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for
freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every
respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible
to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His
frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was
a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of
highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something
remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would
have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the
tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born
as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!

It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening
with a cutlass in his hand he would--after supper of course--have
attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least
ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled
bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of
other wounds and bruises.

Luckily for his comrades he was _not_ free that night.

"Boys," said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an
elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning
to twinkle in the darkening sky, "it do seem to me, now that I've had
time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o' gittin' out o'
this here scrape is to keep quiet, an' pretend that we're uncommon fond
of our _dear_ Arab friends, till we throws 'em off their guard, an'
then, some fine night, give 'em the slip an' make sail across the desert
for Suakim."

"No doubt you're right," answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired
and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, "but
I have not much hope of gaining their confidence--especially after your
acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them."

"Why, man alive! they won't mind that. It was all in the way of fair
fight," said Molloy; "an' the rascal was no favourite, I could see
that."

"It's a wonder t