Right or wrong, a little thought taught the lad that he was helpless. Night was at hand, and it would have been impossible to despatch a message till morning, for the presence of the pirates and the sound of the firing had put every owner of a boat to flight.
Hence it was, then, that the inevitable was cheerfully accepted.
That night darkness soon hid the towering sails of the retreating pirates; and in the morning watch, when Stan left Blunt’s side to go to the roof and look out in the grey dawn, glad to breathe the fresh, cool air after some hours in the heated office where he had shared the watch by Blunt’s rough couch, there was no sign of danger, scan the distant windings of the river how he would, while sunrise endorsed the fact that the enemy had sailed on all through the night for their rendezvous, scores of miles away.
Chapter Thirty Two.
“Shot Silk.”
It was the next evening when, after a whole day’s rest passed in a deep sleep quite free from fever—as Stan was made to notice by Wing the Chinaman, who drew his attention to the calmness of the sleep, the absence of all fever and restlessness, and, above all, the soft, fine perspiration which bedewed the patient’s skin—Blunt slowly opened his eyes in the office, now made light and airy by the removal of the barricades, and lay looking up at the ceiling.
As Wing pointed out the fact to Stan, the movement he made startled the sufferer, who looked at him sideways and said:
“What’s the matter? Where am I?”