“Oh, he’s happy enough,” said Rodd, “and enjoying himself with the thought that Skipper Chubb has had a good day’s work getting on a new outer skin over the hole.”
“Ah, yes, I hope so,” cried Morny eagerly, his friend’s suggestion seeming to brighten him up.
“And I say,” cried Rodd, “shan’t we sleep to-night! How I shall stretch! I don’t think I should much mind a great spotted cat coming and sniffing round the tent. Of course it would be very horrid to be clawed or bitten, but there’s something natural about that. The idea of being grabbed by one of those great slimy reptiles and dragged under water, and before you have had time to squeak—”
“Rodd, don’t, please!” cried Morny, with a shudder. “It makes my flesh creep.”
“Yes; I was going to say it’s time you lads changed your conversation,” said the doctor quietly, “for none of the forest creatures are likely to disturb us to-night with a watch-fire kept up like this.”
“But I say, uncle,” said Rodd mischievously, later on—when the watch had been set, with a big pile of dead firewood laid ready to replenish the fire, and Uncle Paul was about to follow the example of the Spanish captain and select his patch of dry sand covered with canvas, beneath the extemporised tent.
“Well, what, my boy?” said the doctor drowsily. “Don’t talk now. I am sure every one wants to go to sleep.”
“Yes, uncle; I am sure I do,” said the boy, who was already fitting the projecting bones of his back into the yielding sand; “but do you think it’s likely—”
Rodd stopped to give Morny, who was beside him, a nudge with his elbow.
“Do I think what’s likely, Pickle?” replied the doctor.