“What? Why, great guns, how long have we been here? Surely, you can’t have had time to hear from your father?”
“But, I have,” affirmed Jack. “You’ve been here more than an hour.”
Bob and Frank looked at each other. In all that time, neither had spoken a word. They had just dozed over their lines, pulling in an occasional fish. Frank laughed.
“I guess we went to sleep with our eyes open,” he confessed. “Well, what did your father say?”
“They made a long trek up the lake before crossing over, and are not very far away—somewhere up in that direction—on the other shore, there,” said Jack, pointing. “Dad was worried as the deuce at my story, and they’re coming back.”
“Coming back? Why? It’s all over now.”
“That’s what I told him, Frank. But he’s coming back, anyway. They’re going to get back to the lake, and come straight down to the island. Ought to be here in a couple of hours or less.”
“May as well wait dinner for them, in that case,” observed Bob. “Or what meal is it? Breakfast, lunch, or dinner? I’m sure I don’t know. This perpetual sunshine has me all turned around. I don’t know whether it’s day or night.”
“Same here,” confessed Frank. “I do know, though, that I’m beginning to get up an appetite.” Then a thought, a thought which his somnolent daydreaming over the fishing lines had driven away for the time, crossed his mind, and he paled. “I don’t know though”—catching his breath—“whether I’ll ever want to eat again.”
Jack looked at him sharply. So did Bob. The big fellows noted with apprehension the twisted, stricken look on their slighter chum’s face, and the haunted appearance of his eyes. To Bob’s keen eyes, moreover, two hectic spots glowing brightly in the dark tan of Frank’s cheeks were apparent.