“How long do you think you’ll have to stay here?” asked Phœnix.
“Don’t know,” answered the captain. “Something may come along pretty soon, and we may not be towed in till morning. But you needn’t be afraid. We’ll make everything tight, and though we may roll and pitch, we won’t take in any water.”
“I suppose that vessel with a broken mast couldn’t help us?” said Phœnix.
“No,” said the captain, “it is more than she can do to take care of herself, and she is out of sight now, although she isn’t any nearer the Breakwater than we are.”
“Perhaps some steamboat will come out after us when they find we don’t come back,” suggested Phœnix.
“That may be,” said the captain, willing to give his young passengers as much encouragement as possible. “But you fellows had better get something to eat, and turn in. You’ll be more comfortable in your bunks while we are rolling about in this way.”
But Chap and Phil did not want anything to eat. The very idea was horrible to them. And so Phœnix ate his hard biscuit and some cold meat, for there seemed to be no intention of even boiling a pot of coffee, and then he crawled into his little bunk.
“Boys,” groaned Chap, “I don’t care for a tug-boat as much as I used to.”
“Care for it!” said Phil, in a weak voice. “I hope I may never——”
And here his remark ended; he was too sick to say what he hoped.