Tom Fillot had folded up the flag and laid it back in the locker, after which he had seated himself to wait for orders. At last, after quite an effort, Mark roused himself from his musings, and turned to his companion in distress.
“Tom,” he said, “what ought I to do?”
“Nothing, sir,” said the man, promptly. “There ain’t nothing you can. Someone else must do whatever is to be done for us. We’ve got to wait.”
“But could we row back to the port?”
“Without biscuit or water, sir, and with that sun sure to come up to-morrow ready to ’most scorch out our brains. What do you think?”
“I think it’s impossible, Tom.”
“Don’t say think, sir. It’s what you say without the think, and so I tell you. Impossible, and I don’t say that because I ain’t willing to work. I’ll take an oar, and row till I drop if you like, but what good will one man do, or one man and a young gentleman? You needn’t say you think it’s impossible, sir, for you know it is, and that all we can do is to sit and wait. To-morrow morning, I’ll rig up the flag over an oar, so as to keep the sun off Mr Russell, sir.”
“If the ship hasn’t come and picked us up, Tom.”
The sailor was silent.
“Don’t say you think she will not,” cried the lad.