“What can that be, Jem?” whispered Don.
“Not going to wenture an observation again,” replied Jem, sourly.
Then all was still save the murmurs of voices inboard, and Don stood pressed against the bulwark listening intently, and thinking that before they went below to their hammocks they must haul up the lines again and coil them down, or their appearance would betray that something had been going on.
How long they had been waiting since the last sound was heard, Don could not tell; but all was so wonderfully still that the silence was oppressive; and after arriving at the conclusion that the canoe would not come, as from the utter absence of light or movement ashore it was evident that none of the natives were stirring, he turned to Jem.
“Asleep?” he whispered.
“I arn’t a horse, am I?” was the surly reply. “Nice place to go to sleep standing up, Mas’ Don.—Think he’ll come?”
“I in afraid not, now.”
“What shall us do?”
Don was silent.
“Say, Mas’ Don,” whispered Jem, after a thoughtful pause, “seems a pity to waste them ropes after—”