“Yes,” said Fitz.—“Splendid, Andy.”
“Ah,” said the Camel; “I never haud wi’ going upon a journey, however short, wi’out something in the way of food.”
Chapter Fifty Two.
Fitz’s conscience pricks.
Daybreak brought a blank look of amazement into the lads’ countenances. The soft, sweet, bracing air of morning floated from the glorious shore, all cliff and indentation looking of a pearly grey, almost the same tint as the surf that curled over upon the rocks distant about two miles.
A mere glance was directed at the dangerous coast, for every eye was turned seaward, east, north, and south, in search of the gunboat; but she was not to be seen.
“Surely she’s not gone down!” cried Fitz.
“Oh, hardly,” said Poole; “but it’s very puzzling. What do you make of it, Butters?”