"Decidedly slim, I should say," was his laconic rejoinder.
Grace stopped eating, and a look of dismay overspread her face. He continued:
"You see we're far out of the regular steamship track. Not being down on the chart, navigators probably never heard of this island. Our only hope is in the whalers. These waters are full of whales, and whaling-vessels come here after them from all parts of the world. Some no doubt land here to replenish their supply of fresh water. Or a passing whaler may sight our fire."
"How long will we have to wait?" she demanded anxiously.
He shrugged his shoulders as if the length of their enforced sojourn on the island were a matter of no concern to him. Indifferently he replied:
"One can't tell. Three months—six months—a year!"
"A year!" gasped Grace. "How could I live here a year, or even six months—I should go mad."
He smiled grimly.
"Oh, we get accustomed to most anything when we have to. I wasn't overfond of the job I had on the ship, but I had to knuckle down to it all the same. We don't always get things the way we want them, do we?"
She ignored the rebuke, too much perturbed at the gloomy prospect he held out. Nor did she notice that this was the first allusion he had made to his work in the stoke-hold.