The moment the musket was discharged, the canoe backed into the fog again, but we could plainly hear the splash and whiz of a number of paddles rapidly plied, as if in great alarm. But even these sounds soon ceased, and, once more, all was still. For half an hour after this, all hands remained on the qui vive, but the silence continued unbroken; so, after seeing the lookouts all right, Sprawl, Pumpbolt, and myself (as for Lanyard he would not leave the deck) went below to have a snack of supper, preparatory to making a start of it, if it were possible, whenever the swell on the bar was quieter.
"Tol lol de rol," sung ould Davie Doublepipe. "Oh Benjie Brail, Benjie Brail, are we never to get out of this Styx—out of this infernal river? What say you, Pumpbolt, my man?"
"I'll tell you more about it," said Pumpbolt, "when we have got some grub. But what Sir Oliver has done, or how he has managed without me, for these two days past, is a puzzler."
"Ah, bad for you master," said I. "He will find he can do without you—should not have given him the opportunity, man."
"No more I should—no more I should," responded the master.
So we set to our meal, and were making ourselves as comfortable as circumstances admitted, when Binnacle trundled down the ladder in red-hot haste.
"The canoes are abroad again, sir,—we hear them close to, but the fog is thicker than ever."
"The devil!" said I; and we all hurried on deck.
Imminent peril is a beautiful antisoporitic, and we found all hands at quarters of their own accord—the devil a drum need to have been beaten.
"Where do you hear them—where is the noise you speak of?" said Sprawl.