“But of course they could not know what a pickle we are in,” he said to himself the next moment, as he resumed his patient watch, going to and fro, noting that steersman and blacks were all intent upon their duty, while Tom Fillot was forward keeping a bright look-out.
And so hours passed, and then an intense feeling of drowsiness came for him to combat.
It made Mark angry with nature, for it seemed to be so absurd that after taking a good mid-day rest he could not go through a night without feeling so wretchedly sleepy. But after a good sluice in a fresh bucket of water he felt better, and getting a biscuit, began to nibble that and walked forward again. Then back to the cabin, and grew melancholy to see his brother officer lying there so utterly helpless, just when he wanted his aid so badly.
Once more in the bows he stood using his glass in vain, and then telling himself that it was not to be expected, he turned to Tom Fillot.
“I suppose we shall not sight the Nautilus,” he said.
“No, sir, I don’t expect it. Two or three days more like this, though, and we shall be in port without her help.”
“I hope we shall,” said Mark, rather despondently; and, tucking his glass under his arm, he went aft again toward where he could see the faint glow from the binnacle light shining up in the steersman’s face.
He spoke to the man at the wheel.
“Quite an easy job,” he said.
“Ay, ay, sir: easy enough. Wish it was a little rougher, for everything’s so quiet that it’s sleepy work.”