“Hear, hear,” cried Peterkin. “Nobly spoken, Jack. Hand me a drop water, Ralph. Why, girl what’s wrong with you? You look just like a black owl blinking in the sunshine.”
Avatea smiled. “I sleepy,” she said; and as if to prove the truth of this, she laid her head on the edge of the canoe and fell fast asleep.
“That’s uncommon sharp practice,” said Peterkin, with a broad grin. “Don’t you think we should awake her to make her eat something first? or, perhaps,” he added, with a grave, meditative look, “perhaps we might put some food in her mouth, which is so elegantly open at the present moment, and see if she’d swallow it while asleep. If so, Ralph, you might come round to the front here and feed her quietly, while Jack and I are tucking into the victuals. It would be a monstrous economy of time.”
I could not help smiling at Peterkin’s idea, which, indeed, when I pondered it, seemed remarkably good in theory; nevertheless I declined to put it in practice, being fearful of the result should the victual chance to go down the wrong throat. But, on suggesting this to Peterkin, he exclaimed—
“Down the wrong throat, man! why, a fellow with half an eye might see that if it went down Avatea’s throat it could not go down the wrong throat!—unless, indeed, you have all of a sudden become inordinately selfish, and think that all the throats in the world are wrong ones except your own. However, don’t talk so much, and hand me the pork before Jack finishes it. I feel myself entitled to at least one minute morsel.”
“Peterkin, you’re a villain. A paltry little villain,” said Jack, quietly, as he tossed the hind legs (including the tail) of a cold roast pig to his comrade; “and I must again express my regret that unavoidable circumstances have thrust your society upon me, and that necessity has compelled me to cultivate your acquaintance. Were it not that you are incapable of walking upon the water, I would order you, sir, out of the canoe.”
“There! you’ve wakened Avatea with your long tongue,” retorted Peterkin, with a frown, as the girl gave vent to a deep sigh. “No,” he continued, “it was only a snore. Perchance she dreameth of her black Apollo. I say, Ralph, do leave just one little slice of that yam. Between you and Jack I run a chance of being put on short allowance, if not—yei—a—a—ow!”
Peterkin’s concluding remark was a yawn of so great energy that Jack recommended him to postpone the conclusion of his meal till next morning,—a piece of advice which he followed so quickly, that I was forcibly reminded of his remark, a few minutes before, in regard to the sharp practice of Avatea.
My readers will have observed, probably, by this time, that I am much given to meditation; they will not, therefore, be surprised to learn that I fell into a deep reverie on the subject of sleep, which was continued without intermission into the night, and prolonged without interruption into the following morning. But I cannot feel assured that I actually slept during that time, although I am tolerably certain that I was not awake.
Thus we lay like a shadow on the still bosom of the ocean, while the night closed in, and all around was calm, dark, and silent.