“Think so, Tom? Very well, then. Seafowl ahoy!”
It was a loud tenor shout that doubtless penetrated the cane jungle farther than would the deep bass of the able-seaman, and after a minute’s listening, Murray hailed again; but somehow the shout did not seem to have any result.
“Let me have a try, sir,” growled the sailor, and upon the middy nodding, the man shouted five times at intervals, listening with his hand to his ear after every hail.
“It’s of no good, Tom,” said Murray bitterly. “Come along, and let’s be doing something.”
“That’s what I was a-thinking, sir, for if we stop here much longer we shall be reg’larly sucked down into the mud. ’Sides which, if my poor mate hears us he won’t come here. He’d on’y hail.”
“And if the enemy hear us they are quite at home here, and they’ll come down upon us and put a stop to our getting across to the boat. What do you mean by that?—What are you chuckling about?”
“You, sir,” said the man. “I was thinking what an orficer you will make some day.”
“Do you mean that for banter, my man?” said Murray angrily.
“Banter, sir? What, chaff? Not me, sir. I meant it. I felt a bit proud of you, sir, for using your head like that.”
“Well, this is no time for paying compliments, Tom. You take the lead.”