The Cook handed the Skipper the tobacco with a look that expressed the wish that it had been gunpowder instead, and the thin young lad, who was at everybody's beck and call, ran as fast as his legs could carry him up to the little knoll. The Skipper seated himself in the shade and puffed away. Cynthia hung anxiously on every puff, every breath.
"Uncle, will you never speak? If you knew how interested I am——"
Captain Schuyler sat, his pipe in his mouth, and talked one-sidedly between the puffs.
"The idiots want to walk to Cap Haïtien," said the Skipper. "I tell 'em it's worse than foolish, but they seem pretty determined. They say they can do it in two days' time. Must be twenty miles or more, following the shore. They say they can bring back horses for the rest of us."
"That's an excellent idea!" said Cynthia. "I don't believe I shall get tired of pork in two days' time. I don't know about the third. Have we enough food for two days, Uncle?"
"Lord, yes! We'll get along a week easy.—What do you think, Jones?"
"I'd let 'em try it," said I. "Of course, they'll never come back. I've seen 'em start off before this to bring aid and succour. They never returned, except in story-books."
"If I was sure of that, I'd let 'em go mighty quick," said the Skipper. "We're better off without 'em."
He turned to the group. "How many of you want to go?" He raised his voice, so that it would carry to where they sat.