“No, sir.” Hornblower looked straight at him. “Neither have you, sir.”
“No,” grinned Bush.
He had not been able to spare a moment for anything like that, with the whole defence of the fort to be organised. But he could bear fatigue and hunger and thirst, and he doubted if Hornblower could.
“I’ll get a drink of water at the well, sir,” said Hornblower.
As he said the words, and the full import came to him, a change in his expression was quite obvious. He ran the tip of his tongue over his lips; Bush could see that the lips were cracked and parched and that the tongue could do nothing to relieve them. The man had drunk nothing since he had landed twelve hours ago—twelve hours of desperate exertion in a tropical climate.
“See that you do, Mr. Hornblower,” said Bush. “That’s an order.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Bush found the telescope leaving his hand and passing into Hornblower’s.
“May I have another look, sir, before I go down? By George, I thought as much. That twomaster’s warping out, sir. Less than an hour before she’s within range. I’ll get the guns manned, sir. Take a look for yourself, sir.”
He went darting down the stone stairs of the tower, having given back the telescope, but half way down he paused.