"They're an hour late now. What's the matter with 'em?"
Tex was worried, too. The regular dawn attack of the swamp-dwellers was long overdue.
"Reckon they're thinking up some new tricks," he said. "I sure wish our relief would get here. I could use a vacation."
Breska's teeth showed a cynical flash of white.
"If they don't come soon, it won't matter. At that, starving is pleasanter than beetle-bombs, or green snakes. Hey, Tex. Here comes the Skipper."
Captain John Smith—Smith was a common name in the Volunteer Legion—crawled along the catwalk. There were new lines of strain on the officer's gaunt face, and Tex's uneasiness grew.
He knew that supplies were running low. Repairs were urgently needed. Wasn't the relief goin' to come at all?
But Captain Smith's pleasant English voice was as calm as though he were discussing cricket-scores in a comfortable London club.
"Any sign of the beggars, Tex?"
"No, sir. But I got a feeling...."