“Trying to get down to you, but as soon as I stir the bough begins to crack.”
“Steady, mate, steady! I can’t see you, but I can hear, and if you come down on us we are gone. Here, I say, it will be hours before it’s morning, won’t it?”
There was a groan in reply—a big groan formed by several voices in unison.
“But how long will it be before, the tide goes down and leaves us?”
There was no reply, and a dead silence fell upon the occupants clinging to different portions of the tree, all of whom had managed with the strength and activity of sailors to drag themselves up beyond the reach of the water and at varying distances from where Joe Cross clung with one messmate hanging just above his head.
“Well, look here, messmates,” said Joe at last, “it’s no use to make the worst on it. I’ve got the young skipper all right, and he’s growing more lively, for he just give a kick. Now who’s this ’ere? It’s you, Harry Briggs, aren’t it?”
“Ay, ay, mate; me and water, for I swallowed a lot before I got out of it.”
“Now, look here; how are you holding on?”
“Hanging down’ards, my lad, with my hind legs tied in a knot round a big bough; and I keep on trying to get hold of you by the scruff, but I can’t quite reach.”
“Why, that’s a-hinging like the bees used to do outside my old mother’s skep. Well, you mustn’t let go, my lad, else down you come.”