“Maybe not. But it’s just as likely to be days as not. It all depends.”
As he spoke, Ritchie advanced some little distance to the right, beckoning us to follow.
He drew the bushes aside from the foot of the rock, and lo! the entrance to a large cave.
“It’s still there, you see,” said Ritchie. “Not a bit altered since I was here before. No; caves are like keyholes, they never fly away.”
He entered, and we followed, the men holding the branches aside to admit the light. The place was large and roomy, and evidently constantly inhabited. Here were the remains of a fire, here a heap of bones, and here again a bed of dry leaves.
The most of the forenoon was spent in preparing our fortifications. The bushes were cut down from the front, admitting light and air, and a bulwark of small tree trunks was built in front, the boat being hauled inside. There was plenty of fallen wood about, so that our work was by no means difficult.
After all had been done that could be done, we had nothing to do but watch and wait.
Watch and wait for the wind to change and give us a chance, or for the foe to come.
I do not know anything more irksome than such a position. When there is danger ahead, it is human nature to wish to face it at once and be done with it. But in this case we did not know whence the danger would come, nor what would be its precise character when it did come.
All that day—and a dreary one it was—the wind blew steadily from the east, whitening the waves, and moaning mournfully through the trees in the forest around us. We kept a good outlook on the Reach for any steamer or ship that might be passing, but none appeared.