“There, laddies; I kenned it was a bird—one of them long-legged, big-beaked chaps that stand out in the water spearing eels. Wish we had got him now.”
“Was that a bird, father?” whispered Poole. “Why, you ought to have known it was, my lad. There goes another, and another. If you listen you can hear the cry dying right away in the distance—one of those great cranes.”
“Fine bird to keep for singing,” said the cook, “only I want everything for the pot or the spit. There he goes again. What a rich voice, laddies! Sounds as if he were fat.”
The rifles were uncocked gently and carefully, and all sat listening again, thoroughly on the qui vive, for though fully expecting that the first warning of danger would be a shot from one of the sentries, all felt that there was a possibility of the enemy stealing up in the darkness and making a rush which would quite take them by surprise.
It was depressing work to the wakeful, and as the hours stole slowly on first one and then another, tired out with the exertions of the day, let his head sink upon his breast where he crouched and gave audible notice that he had forgotten everything in the way of danger, in sleep.
From time to time the boys kept up a desultory conversation, but at last this ceased, and Fitz suddenly lifted his head with a jerk and began to look wonderingly round at the great stars.
“What’s the matter?” said Poole, in a startled way.
“I dunno,” replied the middy. “It seemed to me that somebody got hold of me and gave me a jerk.”
“That’s just how I felt. Look out!”
Fitz did look out as far as the darkness would allow, and his hands began to turn moist against the stock of his gun; but there was nothing to be heard but the heavy breathing of the sleepers, and both lads were beginning to think that the start and jerk were caused by their having been asleep themselves, when there was a familiar voice close at hand.