“Very,” said the doctor, drily. “Suppose you’d take a few sandwiches to eat on the way?”
“There, you’re joking me again,” said the boy. “I suppose it would be many days’ march.”
“Say months, then think a little and make it years.”
“Oh! nonsense, doctor!”
“Or more likely you’d never reach it. It would be next to impossible.”
“Why?” said Carey.
“Want of supplies. The traveller would break down for want of food and water.”
“Oh! very well,” cried the boy, merrily; “then we’ll go by sea.”
It was the day following this conversation that Carey Cranford’s energy found vent, despite the heat, in a fresh way.
The Chusan was tearing along through the dazzlingly bright sea, churning up the water into foam with her propeller and leaving a cloud of smoke behind. The heat was tremendous, for there was a perfect calm, and the air raised by the passage of the steamer was as hot as if it had come from the mouth of a furnace. The passengers looked languid and sleepy as they lolled about finder the great awning, and the sailors congratulated themselves that they were not Lascars stoking in the engine-room, Robert Bostock, generally known on board as Old Bob, having given it as his opinion that it was “a stinger.” Then he chuckled, and said to the man nearest: