“Why, we are keeping on eating.”
“Yes; biscuit-and-water. But that only keeps you from starving; it doesn’t do you good. Why, if old Andy had a good fire and was roasting a wild turkey, or grilling some fish, we shouldn’t feel dull, but be all expectation, and sniffing at the cooking, impatient till it was done.”
“Well, I suppose there is something in that,” said Fitz, “for I feel as faint as can be. I seem to have been so ever since I began to get better. Always wanting something more to eat.”
“Of course you do. That’s right enough.”
“What’s that?” cried Fitz, catching his companion by the arm; for there was a loud slap, as if the water of the river had suddenly received a sharp blow with the blade of an oar.
“I d’know,” said Poole. “Boat coming, I think. Did you hear that, father?” And the speaker looked in the direction where the skipper had last been seen.
“Oh yes,” was the reply, coming from outside one of the windows of the room they had strengthened with a breastwork.
“It’s a boat coming, isn’t it, father?”
“No, my lad,” said the skipper, in a deep-toned growl. “It’s one of the crocodiles or alligators fishing for its supper.”
“No, no, Mr Reed,” cried Fitz; “we mean that sound like a heavy slap on the water. There it goes again! That!”