“Well, you try now.”
Bevis plucked awhile. Then Mark tried again. This was in the courtyard of the hut. The moonlight had now quite succeeded to the day. By the watch it was past nine. Out of doors it was light, but in the hut Bevis had to strike a match to see the time.
“It’s supper-time,” he said.
“Now they are having breakfast at home, I suppose.”
“I dare say we’re quite forgotten,” said Bevis. “People always are. Seven thousand miles away they’re sure to forget us.”
“Altogether,” said Mark. “Of course they will. Then some day they’ll see two strange men with very long beards and bronzed faces.”
“Broad-brimmed Panama bats.”
“And odd digger-looking dresses.”
“And revolvers in their pockets out of sight, come strolling up to the door and ask for—”
“Glasses of milk, as they’re thirsty, and while they’re sipping—as they don’t really like such stuff—just ask quietly if the governor’s alive and kicking—”