This latter sport proved highly welcome to the crews of both vessels, providing as it did a pleasant change of diet after so much salt provision, for very few fish were caught, consequent upon the way in which they were persecuted by the reptiles.
“I wish you would join in. I am sure you can shoot well,” said Rodd; but Morny shook his head.
“No,” he said; “my father is so anxious to see the brig repaired.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Rodd, “but that wouldn’t make any difference. You can’t help.”
“No, I cannot help,” replied the lad, “and I should like to be with you all the time, but I can’t leave his side. It would seem so hard if I didn’t stay with him to share his anxiety.”
“Well, but you might have a few shots at the crocodiles. That’s helping to protect the men who are at work.”
“True,” replied Morny, smiling. “But you two are such clever shots. You can do all that. Don’t ask me again, please.”
Rodd was silent.
But during the long dark evenings in that grand and solitary reach of the river, which looked as if it had never been visited by human beings before, there would have been most enjoyable times had not the Count seemed so preoccupied and thoughtful. Still it had become the custom that there should be a constant interchange of courtesies between the occupants of the two vessels, the sailors thoroughly fraternising, while their superiors alternately dined together upon schooner or brig, and a thorough rivalry sprang up between the English and French cooks as to who should provide the best meals for officers and men.
“I should like for us to make an excursion right up the river as far as we could go in the boats,” said Rodd one evening, to his French companion. “Uncle wants to go.”