CHAPTER VII

PIRATES


Mr. James Nuttall made all speed, regardless of the heat, in his
journey from Bridgetown to Colonel Bishop's plantation, and if ever
man was built for speed in a hot climate that man was Mr. James
Nuttall, with his short, thin body, and his long, fleshless legs.
So withered was he that it was hard to believe there were any juices
left in him, yet juices there must have been, for he was sweating
violently by the time he reached the stockade.

At the entrance he almost ran into the overseer Kent, a squat,
bow-legged animal with the arms of a Hercules and the jowl of a
bulldog.

"I am seeking Doctor Blood," he announced breathlessly.

"You are in a rare haste," growled Kent. "What the devil is it?
Twins?"

"Eh? Oh! Nay, nay. I'm not married, sir. It's a cousin of mine,
sir."

"What is?"

"He is taken bad, sir," Nuttall lied promptly upon the cue that
Kent himself had afforded him. "Is the doctor here?"