“Don’t be absurd,” said Hilton excitedly. “Shall we try to-night?”
“Well, no; let’s leave it till to-morrow, when we can devote the day to storing up cigars and food; and then if they don’t find out the hole I have made, we can slip through and make for the river.”
“But suppose they find out the hole you have made.”
“Well, then we must try another plan: your way through the thatch.”
“Yes, of course. But, by the way, old fellow, I wish you would drop that habit you have just taken up of spitting through the window.”
“Certainly I will,” said Chumbley, coolly; “but don’t you see, old fellow, I’ve had to get rid of a lot of bamboo chips, and that was the only way I could destroy them. They’re awfully harsh chewing, by the way.”
Hilton looked at him with a kind of admiration.
“And to think that I’ve been abusing you for your indolence!” he cried.
“Didn’t hurt me a bit,” said Chumbley. “Go it. I don’t mind.”
That night and the next day seemed as if they would never pass. Every time a native servant entered Hilton felt sure that he had some suspicion about the loosened bamboos, and it seemed as if his eyes were directed towards the pile of mats upon which Chumbley slept.