“Teal” cried Poole, as he scrambled up. “Aren’t right,” growled the same voice. “That you, Mr Poole?”
“Oh, it’s you, Chips!” cried the lad, in a tone full of relief.
“Winks it is,” was the reply; “but the skipper said I warn’t to let anybody pass without he said Sponson.”
“Sponson,” cried Fitz, laughing.
“Ah, you know now,” growled the carpenter, “because I telled you; but it don’t seem right somehow. But you aren’t enemies, of course.”
“Not much,” said Poole. “Well, how are you getting on, Chips?”
“Oh, tidy, sir, tidy; only it’s raither dull work, and precious damp. A bit wearisome like with nothing to do but chew. Thought when I heard you that there was going to be something to warm one up a bit. Wonderful how chilly it gets before the sun’s up. I should just like to have a bit of timber here, and my saw.”
“To let the enemy know exactly where we are?”
“Ah, of course; that wouldn’t do. But I always feel when I haven’t got another job on the way that it’s a good thing to do to cut up a bit of timber into boards.”
“Why?” asked Fitz, more for the sake of speaking than from any desire to know.