Morning came again, and one by one we sat up and looked about us, and then gazed into each other’s faces without speaking.
“I vote we have breakfast,” said Tom at length, “for I’m sharp set and very thirsty.”
“There’s neither food nor water remaining, boy,” answered Mudge in a hollow tone. “God may, if he thinks fit, send us help before the day is over. We can hold out a few hours longer, I should hope; but if help does not come, we must make up our minds like men to die. It has been the lot of many; why should we complain?”
These remarks were not calculated to raise our spirits. Perhaps Mudge knew that it would be useless to make any attempt to do so. He spoke but the truth, and we all knew that. It was a perfect calm; no vessel could approach us, and we were too weak to row. Mudge and I made the attempt, telling Tom to steer; but after a few strokes I could row no more, and nearly let my oar slip before I could get it inboard.
“We must wait for a breeze,” said Mudge, “which will come some time or other; it is our only hope.”
For some time he was silent. He alone continued seated on a thwart, the rest of us having sunk down with our heads upon them, while we leaned against the side of the boat. As the sun rose, the heat became more and more oppressive.
“Lads, it won’t do to give way to despair,” exclaimed Mudge suddenly, after he had been silent for an hour or more. “Can’t some of you sit up and talk?”
On hearing him say this, I endeavoured to arouse myself. Just then I heard a gentle splash in the water not far off. “What’s that?” I exclaimed.
“A shoal of flying-fish,” cried Mudge. “They are heading this way. Get out your oar, Rayner, and we will try and intercept them.”
By a desperate effort I did as he told me, while he pulled the oar on the opposite side.