“Say? What can I say?” was whispered back. “Anything. Sing a song, or tell a story. I want to keep the lads in good heart. If we show the white feather they’ll show it too.”
“That’s right enough,” said Fitz gloomily; “but I don’t feel as if I could do anything but think. I couldn’t sing a song or tell a story to save my life.”
“But you must. It is to save your life.”
“I tell you I can’t,” cried Fitz angrily.
“Then whistle.”
The middy could not even whistle, but the suggestion and the manner in which it was said did have a good effect, for it made him laugh.
“Ah! That’s better,” cried Poole. “I say, Butters, do you think if we had a fishing-line overboard we should catch anything?”
“Like enough, lad, if we had a good bait on. Fish is generally on the feed in the night, and there’s no end of no-one-knows-whats off these ’Merican coasts. Might get hold of something big as would tow us right ashore.”
“Yes, or right out to sea,” said Fitz.
“Ay, my lad; but we should have to chance that.”