“Yes, Tom,” said Murray; and they felt for their unfortunate companions in the darkness, with the result that Titely flung out one fist with the accompaniment of an angry growl, and at the first touch of Murray’s fingers, Roberts uttered an angry expostulation, taking all the stiffness out of his brother middy’s joints as the lad started, broke out in a violent perspiration, and caught hold of his wakeful companion, for the pair to stand listening for some sign of the enemy having heard the cry, and beginning to steal silently towards them.
“Cutlasses, Tom,” whispered Murray, with his lips to the big sailor’s ear, and together they unsheathed their weapons and stood back to back, ready to defend themselves.
“Thrust, Tom,” whispered Murray again.
“Ay, ay, sir!” And then the terrible silence of the black darkness was only broken by a faint mutter from one or other of the wounded pair, while the listeners breathed hard in agony, trying the while to suppress the going and coming of the prime necessity of life. Murray pressed the hard hilt of his cutlass against his breast in the faint hope that by so doing he could deaden the heavy throbbing that sounded loudly to his ear, while if any one was approaching at all near he felt certain that he must hear the dull thumps that went on within the breast of the big sailor.
There was another dread, too, which troubled the watch-keepers: at any moment they felt certain the disturbed sleepers might begin talking aloud. But that peril they were spared.
“Don’t hear anything, sir,” whispered Tom, at last. “I made sure we should have brought them down upon us. I say, sir, it seems to me as Natur must have made some mistake.”
“How?” asked Murray.
“Forgot to wind up the sun last night.”
“What do you mean?”
“So as it should rise again.”