"HATCHING MISCHIEF."
A long, busy day similar to the last, as they slowly crept along by the
coast. The weather glorious, the blacks docile to a degree, and the
Americans perfectly silent in their prison.
Provisions and bottles of water were lowered down to them by means of a
line through the ventilator; but the prisoners made no sign.
"My!" said Tom, with a laugh, as he fastened a string round the neck of
a well-corked bottle to lower it down, "won't the Yankee skipper be mad
when he puts that to his lips. Being a bottle, he'll think it's rum.
Some folks can't think as a bottle would hold anything else."
But no sound came even then, and Mark began to feel anxious.
"We haven't suffocated them, have we?" he said in a low voice. "They
are so very quiet."
"Not we, sir. They aren't the chaps to lie down and die without making
a pretty good flurry over it fust. No sir; they're a-settin'."
"Sitting, Tom," said Mark, wonderingly.
"No, sir; setting. Hatching mischief. They'll give us another of their
chickens after dark, and you and I must have a sleep apiece, so as to be
ready for 'em to-night."
"Yes. We must," said Mark; and after leaving the deck in charge of
Stepney and Grote, of the latter especially, as Mark felt sure that he
could be trusted now, he and Tom Fillot lay down under an awning they
had rigged up, and in less than a moment they were both sleeping
heavily.
It was nearly sundown when Mark awoke with a start from an uneasy dream,
in which he fancied that he had been neglecting his duty.