Billy gladly availed himself of the permission, and took a biscuit out of the bag. Before he had eaten half of it he fell back in the stern-sheets of the boat, dropt into a sound sleep, and dreamed of home and his mother and Tottie.
Hour after hour the men pulled at the oars. They were strong men both of them, inured to protracted exertion and fatigue. Still the night seemed as if it would never come to an end, for in those high southern latitudes at that time of the year the days were very short and the nights were long.
At last both men stopped rowing, as if by mutual consent.
“It’s a pity,” said Gaff, “to knock ourselves up together. You’d better lie down, cap’n, an’ I’ll pull both oars for a spell.”
“No, no, Gaff,” replied Graddy, with sudden and unaccountable urbanity; “I’m not a bit tired, and I’m a bigger man than you—maybe a little stronger. So do you lie down beside the boy, an’ I’ll call ye when I want a rest.”
Gaff remonstrated, protesting that he was game to pull for hours yet, but the captain would take no denial, so he agreed to rest; yet there was an uneasy feeling in his breast which rendered rest almost impossible. He lay for a long time with his eyes fixed on the captain, who now pulled the two oars slowly and in measured time as before.
At last, in desperation, Gaff gave Billy a poke in the ribs which roused him.
“Come, boy,” said his father almost sternly, “you’ve slept long enough now; get up an’ steer. Don’t you see the cap’n’s pullin’ all alone!”
“All right, daddy,” said Billy, uttering a loud yawn and stretching himself. “Where am I? Oh! oh!”
The question was put before he had quite recovered consciousness; the terminal “oh!” was something like a groan of despair, as his eye fell on the forbidding countenance of the captain.