“Yes, Tom; it comes rushing from seaward and whistles quite cold against the back of my head, while in front the glow is quite painful.”
“Yes, sir, and it’s growing worse and worse.”
“It’s my belief, Tom, that this wind will fan the flames till the forest will take fire before long as well as the huts.”
“’Fore long, sir?” said the man, in the intervals of coughing and choking. “Why, it’s been on fire ever so long, and roaring away right up to the tops of the trees. We shall be hearing some of them come toppling down before long.”
“I wish this smoke would blow over, for I can’t make out where we are.”
“No, sir, nor nobody else neither. Oh! Here’s one of us, if it ain’t a nigger. Here, who are you?”
“I’m Jenks, messmet, I think,” came hoarsely. “But I say, where’s the orficer?”
“I’m here, Jenks,” cried Murray. “What is it?”
“On’y this, sir; I just wanted to know whether fresh clothes’ll be sarved out after this here job, for I’m sure as I shan’t be decent.”
“What, have you got your shirt burned, my lad?”