“Well, then, sir, what about victuals?”
Chapter Forty One.
“If the Powder ain’t damp.”
Morning came with a rush, the rays of the sun seeming to do battle with the mist that floated over the surface of the river. The golden arrows of light cut and broke up the one dense, grey, heavy cloud into portions which floated slowly along, separating more and more, the dull grey growing rapidly silvery, then golden, and the gold becoming suffused with soft light. So beautiful was the scene that, while Archie gazed thoughtfully at its beauty, even commonplace, powder-besmirched Peter sat with his lips apart, staring hard, and then, forgetting himself and their risky position, with its need for concealment, he clapped his hands softly.
“Just look at it, Mister Archie!” he said. “Blest if the place don’t look just like the inside of one of them big hyster-shells that they get the pearls out of!”
“Hush!” said Archie softly.
“Mum!” said Peter. “I forgot; but don’t it look as if the river was boiling hot and the steam rising, and the fire that hots it was shining up through the cloud? I say, nobody could hear me say that,” he whispered.
“I hope not; but for aught we know boats may be floating down, hidden by that mist.”