There was no reply. Jack sat with his arms resting upon his knees, holding the tiller and gazing right before him, seeing nothing, but trying to pierce the future.
“A-wondering what to do next,” muttered Bart, watching his companion furtively. “If the poor thing could see the old cottage now, and the bay, and a decent lugger lying off the point with her sails shivering, would it still be no?”
“Still be no,” he said to himself softly; “and yet I wouldn’t ask to be different to what I am.”
“Mazzard has taken command, Bart,” said Jack at last, “and we must make a fresh start, my lad.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried Bart, sharply.
“We must get sufficient provisions somehow, and run across to the shelter. If the schooner is not there we must wait till she comes in.”
“And you won’t give up without a struggle?”
“Give up?”
“Hurrah!” cried Bart, joyously. “Let’s run up the Usa river to one of the Indian places, and get some food and nuts, and then be off. Hard down!”
Instead of obeying and changing the boat’s direction, Jack suddenly pointed right away into the distance.