The lad dressed himself probably more quickly than he had ever achieved the performance before in his life, and in the process he learned that his uncle and Captain Chubb were on board the brig with several of the men, the skipper superintending the moorings and the arranging of cables from the brig to a couple of great forest trees, with tackle so ordered that the vessel could be careened over to any extent desired, and that the next morning she was to be allowed to sink with the tide so as to be bedded in the mud and laid over until the bottom was so exposed that the carpenter and his mates could get to work.
As soon as Rodd had hurried on deck he found all as his companion had described, while he had just mastered these facts when there was the sharp report of a gun.
“What’s that?” he cried.
“Oh, only your uncle having a shot at a crocodile. Both he and my father have been at it all day, sending bullets into them whenever a head appeared on the surface of the water.”
“But I say, look here, Morny; why didn’t this wake me?”
“Oh, you were shut up down here and too fast asleep.”
“Then that would be uncle’s dose,” cried Rodd. “He must have given me too much. Why, he might have killed me.”
“Oh no. I expect he knew too well what he was about. He seems to have kept off the fever.”
“Fever, yes! Has anybody else got it?”
“No. Your men are quite well.”