“Sitting, Tom,” said Mark, wonderingly.
“No, sir; setting. Hatching mischief. They’ll give us another of their chickens after dark, and you and I must have a sleep apiece, so as to be ready for ’em to-night.”
“Yes. We must,” said Mark; and after leaving the deck in charge of Stepney and Grote, of the latter especially, as Mark felt sure that he could be trusted now, he and Tom Fillot lay down under an awning they had rigged up, and in less than a moment they were both sleeping heavily.
It was nearly sundown when Mark awoke with a start from an uneasy dream, in which he fancied that he had been neglecting his duty.
Tom Fillot was standing over him, and the lad’s first words were,—
“What’s the matter?”
Tom Fillot hastened to reply.
“Nothing, sir, I’ve been all round. Prisoners safe, rations been issued, blacks all quiet, shore three miles off, and nice wind from the sou’-west.”
“Ah!” sighed Mark, with a feeling of relief stealing over him. “I thought something was wrong, and that I had slept too much. How is Mr Russell?”
“Just as he was, sir; lying as quiet as a babby.” Mark crossed to where a bucket of water stood on the deck, signed to one of the men to empty it and draw another, and into this he plunged his face, bathing it for a few minutes to get rid of the remains of his drowsiness, while Tom Fillot fetched him a towel from the cabin.