“What are you talking about?” asked Blunt from out of the mist close at hand—“the pirates going by?”
“Yes,” replied Uncle Jeff; “we’ve got off, haven’t we?”
“Till the fog clears away; and that will not be long. They won’t give us up. It’s only a question of time and their having to beat up against wind and stream. No,” he added, holding his hand up on high; “only against stream. I can feel the breeze rising, and that will carry off the fog before long.”
“Then you will not be disappointed of your savage desires, Stan,” said Uncle Jeff good-humouredly. “What a fellow you are to fight!”
“Oh! don’t try to make jokes now, uncle; it’s too horrible.”
“For the enemy, Stan, my lad; and I don’t pity them a bit. They have the means in their hands to escape all fighting by leaving us carefully alone; but they will come on these murdering expeditions, to let’s give them all the bullets we can.”
“Yes, here comes the breeze,” whispered Stan. “I can see the mist gliding by.”
“Yes, there it goes,” said Blunt, endorsing the lad’s words. “We shall be clear by sunrise.”
Quite half-an-hour passed before the air was much lighter, and Blunt ventured to give forth the hope that the enemy might have glided on so far down the river that they would be out of sight, when, almost before he had done speaking, the fog seemed to grow thinner, and directly after to turn to a deep orange, golden hue.
“Sun’s rising,” said Uncle Jeff. “I hope the junks are well out of sight. It will give us time for a good breakfast before they come back.”