“I expect so,” said Mark. “Rations are late. A mutton chop now, or a fowl—”
“Don’t grow here,” said Bevis. “You cut steaks from buffaloes while they’re alive, or fry elephants, or boil turkeys. There are no fowls.”
“It seems to me,” said Mark, “that we ought to have the gun here. Suppose some savages were to land from canoes and get between us and the hut? It’s twenty yards to the stockade; more I should think.”
“I never thought of that,” said Bevis. “There may be fifty canoes full of them in the reeds, and proas flying here almost. Fetch the gun—quick.”
Mark ran and brought it.
“Load with ball,” said Bevis.
The ball was rammed home. Pan set up a joyous bark.
“Kick him,” said Bevis, languidly raising himself on one arm. He had been lying on his back. “He’ll bring the savages, or the crocodiles.”
Pan was kicked, and crouched.
Mark leaned the gun against the teak-tree, and sat down again.