“We’ll get up, an your black’ll be able to overhaul him in a jump or two.”
I began to feel hope. It was but a momentary gleam, and died out in the next instant.
“If the moon ’ud only hold out,” continued Garey, with an emphasis denoting doubt.
“Rot the moon!” said a voice interrupting him; “she’s a gwine to guv out. Wagh!”
It was Rube who had uttered the unpleasant prognostication, in a peevish, but positive tone.
All eyes were turned upward. The moon, round and white, was sailing through a cloudless sky, and almost in the zenith. How, then, was she to “give out?” She was near the full, and could not set before morning. What did Rube mean? The question was put to him.
“Look ee ’ander!” said he in reply. “D’ees see thet ur black line, down low on the paraira?”
There appeared a dark streak along the horizon to the eastward. Yes, we saw it.
“Wal,” continued Rube, “thur’s no timber thur—ne’er a stick—nor high groun neyther: thurfor thet ur’ss a cloud; I’ve seed the likes afore. Wait a bit. Wagh! In jest ten minnits, the durned thing’ll kiver up the moon, an make thet putty blue sky look as black as the hide o’ an Afrikin niggur—it will.”
“I’m afeerd he’s right, capt’n,” said Garey, in a desponding tone. “I war doubtful o’ it myself: the sky looked too near. I didn’t like it a bit: thar’s always a change when things are better ’n common.”