“Something gnaws my stomach like an adder.”
“Oh, that is the soldier's gripes,” said Tom, with a ghastly attempt at a jest. “Poor George!” said he, kindly, “I dare say you never knew what it was to go twenty-four hours without food before.”
“Never in my life, Tom.”
“Well, I have, and I'll tell you the only thing to do—when you can't fill the breadbasket, shut it. Go to sleep till the Southern Cross comes out again.”
“What, sleep in our dripping clothes?”
“No, we will make a roaring fire with these strips of bark; they are dry as tinder by now.”
A pyre four feet high was raised, the strips being laid from north to south and east to west alternately, and they dried their blankets and warmed their smoking bodies.
“George, I have got two cigars; they must last us two days.”
“Oh, I'm no great smoker—keep them for your own comfort.”
Robinson wore a sad smile.