Then the man rose, and apparently satisfied with the helplessness of the prisoners, he uttered a low, abrupt order, and his little train shouldered their spears and marched out, one of them carrying the empty basket, his companion shouldering the heavy earthen jar.
Peter Pegg lay back motionless, to listen to the barring of the door, half-wondering the while at the great change that the closing door made upon the interior: one moment the last rays of the setting sun were flooding the great stable with a deep, blood-red glow; the next the place seemed by comparison quite dark.
The lad listened till the last retiring steps had died away, and then he sat up suddenly, with the recollection of a little knife and fork given to him years before by his grandmother, and chuckling softly to himself, he half-whispered:
“A present for a good boy!—Of course,” he said, after a pause to make sure that no one was going to return; “I am not going to bounce, but I was a very good boy for not pitching into that ’nana. Oh my! Ain’t it splendid!” he continued, turning over on hands and knees and scrambling like a quadruped to where the jar and basket had been placed. “There’s going to be such a supper! But don’t I wish I was going to have company! Oh, you beauty!” he cried hoarsely, as he hugged the great jar to his chest, bent down till he could press his lips to the thick edge, and then tilting it slightly, drank and drank and drank.
At last he lowered the jar till it stood firmly in its place, raised himself upon his knees, and uttered a long, deep sigh.
“Oh, ain’t it splendid!” he said. “They have got water here! Talk about a horse drinking—well, I suppose any one would say I drank like a hass or a pig. No, I didn’t, because I’ve only been drinking the helephant’s share if he comes again—not yours, Mister Archie. I do wish you were awake.—Here, I say, let’s have some of that bread,” he said, half-aloud now; and breaking the cake in four, he placed himself in a comfortable position and took a bite.
“That ain’t quite comfortable, though,” he muttered, and raking a lot of the leaves into the corner of the place, he seated himself so that he could rest his back in the angle.
“Not quite right,” he muttered. “These ’ere big feathers have got a lot of quill in them. Let’s have some more.”
He stretched out his left hand in the darkness to draw an armful more of the dried palm-leaves beneath him, when his hand came in contact with something which rasped against the matted wall and fell heavily in the direction of where his fellow-prisoner lay.
“What’s that?” said the lad sharply, as, sweeping his hand round over the leaves, his fingers closed almost spasmodically upon what felt like a bamboo cane.