"Captain," he called out, "these old bunks here are full of pine-snakes, which have crawled into them for warmth. Fortunately they are quite harmless. Now then, men, they won't hurt you!"
When all the men had returned they declared that it was impossible to sleep any more that night. So more coffee was made, and they all sat and lay about near the fire, talking of their future plans. Cyril began to count the men, but was still so sleepy that he could not quite decide whether their number was nearer twenty than thirty.
For some time no one took any notice of the boy. But at last the Captain did so, and jeered at Whiterock for turning nursemaid.
Then they all began to talk of Cyril, much to his discomfiture.
Presently Whiterock asked him if he would like to remain with them as his adopted son, and in time would become one of the band.
"Ah, like Wolfgang," said the Captain, stroking his long beard. "He was a lad of about your age. We found him. I won't say where, but he grew up amongst us, and for cleverness and pluck there wasn't a man of us all that could beat him. Ah, he would have been captain if he had lived! He was killed in a scuffle with the police. He died fighting nobly."
Cyril had his own opinion about the nobleness of fighting the public officers of law and order. But he felt sorry for Wolfgang. The lad probably knew no better.
"Well, little 'un," said Whiterock, "would you like to stay with us and be my boy?"
"But my father?" said Cyril tremulously, looking appealingly at him.
"Oh, he's dead," said Whiterock hastily. "Now come, boy, don't make a scene."