"Zack was here a minute ago," the Colonel said, leaned over the stair-rail and called, "Zack! Oh, Zack!" No answer. He shouted out of the port door—ran to the starboard side and called. No answer, no Zack.
"It's just like that nigger to stray off when we need him."
Lykoff saw all, heard all, understood all. He seemed wholly absorbed in cutting the end from a fresh cigar. Zack was not in the cabin nor the saloon. The Colonel hurried to the forward deck, and did not hear an uproar that broke out amidships.
Sergeant Danny had accounted for the last hide-away.
He was standing on the shaky platform checking up his list. "That's all of 'em," he remarked, and was about to give orders for the barge to cast off. Suddenly he heard a yell from his Gippies—not a casual yell, but a business yell. So Danny ran back to the railing which overlooked the lower deck. His Gippies were not in file, nor in line, but in jumble, a bobble of red tarboushes backing upwards from the hatchway. Their brown necks strained, their burly arms reached downwards into the darkness. Upwards and backwards, out of that square hole, they were dragging something. That something was more awkward to handle than a wind-mill with every sail revolving.
