“Great marks on their backs.”
“Howling!”
“Jolly!”
They played two games at bezique under the awning, and drank the last drop of sherry mixed with water.
“Everything’s going,” said Bevis. “There’s no more sherry, and more than half the flour’s gone, and Pan had the last bit of butter on the damper at tea—”
“There ought to be roots on the island,” said Mark. “People eat roots on islands.”
“Don’t think there are any here,” said Bevis. “This island is too old for any to grow; it’s like Australia, a kind of grey-bearded place with nothing but kangaroos.”
Soon afterwards they drew down the curtain and went to sleep. As usual, Pan waited till they were firm asleep, and then slipped out into the moonlight. He was lounging in the courtyard when they got up. By the sun-dial it was eight, and having had breakfast, and left the fire banked up under ashes—wood embers keep alight a long time like that—they went down to bathe.
“How quiet it is!” said Mark. “I believe it’s quieter.”
“It does seem so,” said Bevis.