“Hang it, Chumbley, you would make yourself contented anywhere!” cried Hilton, who, now that his hunger was appeased, began to grow angry once more. “Put down that pipe, and let’s see if we cannot contrive some means of getting away from here.”
“Eh?”
“I say put away that pipe, and let’s plan how to get away.”
“Not if I know it,” replied Chumbley. “The tobacco is delicious, and I’m not going to spoil my digestion by putting myself in a fever directly after a meal.”
“But we must make some plans!” cried Hilton.
“Must we? Well, by-and-by will do. I’m very comfortable; and as long as a fellow is comfortable, what more can he want? There, light up and do as I do. I don’t know that I want to escape at all if the cuisine is to be kept up to this mark.”
“But we are prisoners!”
“So we are at the island, man alive. We couldn’t help being brought here; but now we are here, we may as well make the best of it. What splendid tobacco! Real Latakie!”
Hilton fretted and fumed; and finding that he could not move his friend, he went to door and window, examined the walls, and looked up at the open roof; but Chumbley did not move, he merely seemed to be studying their position in the coolest way.
“Look here, sit down, old fellow,” he exclaimed at last, just as Hilton had worked himself into a heat, “it doesn’t seem to me to be of any use to fret and fume. Have a little patience, and let’s see whether this has been done by our dark friend, or else what it does mean.”