"That's his hut yonder." Kent pointed carelessly. "If he's not
there, he'll be somewhere else." And he took himself off. He was
a surly, ungracious beast at all times, readier with the lash of
his whip than with his tongue.

Nuttall watched him go with satisfaction, and even noted the
direction that he took. Then he plunged into the enclosure, to
verify in mortification that Dr. Blood was not at home. A man
of sense might have sat down and waited, judging that to be the
quickest and surest way in the end. But Nuttall had no sense.
He flung out of the stockade again, hesitated a moment as to which
direction he should take, and finally decided to go any way but
the way that Kent had gone. He sped across the parched savannah
towards the sugar plantation which stood solid as a rampart and
gleaming golden in the dazzling June sunshine. Avenues intersected
the great blocks of ripening amber cane. In the distance down one
of these he espied some slaves at work. Nuttall entered the avenue
and advanced upon them. They eyed him dully, as he passed them.
Pitt was not of their number, and he dared not ask for him. He
continued his search for best part of an hour, up one of those
lanes and then down another. Once an overseer challenged him,
demanding to know his business. He was looking, he said, for Dr.
Blood. His cousin was taken ill. The overseer bade him go to the
devil, and get out of the plantation. Blood was not there. If he
was anywhere he would be in his hut in the stockade.

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