“Ah, if that’s all you’re worrying about!–I must say I’d like to know how we’ll get a snack for breakfast. I’m hungry as a–er–groom.”
“Eating! How can you think of eating, Mr. Winthrope–and all the others drowned? This sun is becoming dreadfully hot. It is unbearable! Can you not put up some kind of an awning?”
“Well, now, I must say, I was never much of a hand at such things, and really I can’t imagine what one could rig up. There might have been a bit of sail in the boat, but one can’t see a sign of it. I fancy it was smashed.”
Miss Leslie ventured a glance at Blake. Though still lying as he had sprawled in his drunkenness, there was a comforting suggestion of power in his broad shoulders and square jaw.
“Is he still–in that condition?”
“Must have slept it off by this time, and there’s no more in the flask,” answered Winthrope. Reaching over with his foot, he pushed against Blake’s back.
“Huh! All right,” grunted the sleeper, and sat up, as had Winthrope, half dazed. Then he stared around him, and rose to his feet. “Well, what in hell! Say, this is damn cheerful!”
“I fancy we are in a nasty fix. But I say, my man, there is a woman present, and your language, you know–”
Blake turned and fixed the Englishman with a cold stare.
“Look here, you bloomin’ lud,” he said, “there’s just one thing you’re going to understand, right here and now. I’m not your man, and we’re not going to have any of that kind of blatter. Any fool can see we’re in a tight hole, and we’re like to keep company for a while–probably long as we last.”