“It is of no use to make excuses,” the lad said to himself; “I have failed.”
He was bending very low now with his elbows resting upon his knees, and the only comfort he could find was in the thought that if Dick Roberts had been sent instead, he could have done no better, when he roused himself with the thought that he must not run any more risks; he must reach the place where the boat had been left the previous day, and he was now face to face with the thought that he might over-run the spot during the dark hours, or, when full daylight came, be in the troublous position of incertitude as to whether they had rowed too far or not far enough.
The daylight at last, and the cane brake alive with the cries of the various strange occupants of its wilds. A light mist was floating overhead, the leaves were drenched with dew, and when the pale mist began to grow opalescent, shot as it were with purple, ruby and gold, everything was so beautiful that the lad’s spirits rose with a bound.
“I did my best,” he said to himself, “and though I shall get a good bullying for not doing more, old Anderson will come round and make me tell everything I have gone through, and then nod his head and say that I could have done no more.”
There was a good deal too in the way of making the subject appear more cheerful, for the men were pulling at their oars easily and looked full of contentment, in spite of a few bruises, blood-smears and bandages, ready, too, to smile at him, when he fully expected to encounter surly glances full of reproach, while as soon as a question arose for discussion they plunged into it full of eagerness and excitement.
The first boat-keeper was thoroughly decisive about the spot where the boat had been left.
“Further on yet, sir,” he declared. “I can recollect going along here yesterday.”
“No, you don’t,” said Tom May surlily. “You don’t know nothing about it, lad.”
“Not know? That I do, messmate! Why, I’m sure on it.”
“On’y a-guessing, sir. Don’t you believe a word he says.”