Bryonia had stood moodily silent. He now looked up and shook his head.
“Can’t say, Mars Nabot’,” he answered. But he spoke in a hesitating way that led me to think he preferred not to speak frankly.
“It’s really a puzzler,” resumed Uncle Naboth. “If they mean to kill us, why don’t they start in and fight it out?”
“Perhaps they realize our position is impregnable,” I suggested.
“It ain’t exactly that,” declared my uncle. “If they happen to think to shoot some burnin’ arrers at us, they can easily set fire to the ship, an’ then we’re done for.”
“Not knowin’ about ships, they may not think of that,” said my father, uneasily.
“Well, what then?” asked De Jiminez.
“Then,” replied Joe, “the wily islanders expect to conquer us in one of two ways. First to starve us out, and—”
“They can’t do that in a hurry,” muttered the Captain.
“And second to let us die of thirst,” continued Joe.