After a few spasmodic twitchings of the eyelids and
uneasy grunts, Chris slumbered.
Captain Magnus was of tougher fiber. But he, too, grew silent and
there was a certain meal-sack limpness about his attitude. His
dulled eyes stared dreamily. All at once with a jerk he roused
himself, turned over, and administered to the sleeping Chris a prod
with his large boot.
"Hey, there, wake up! What right you got to be asleep at the
switch?" But Chris only breathed more heavily.
Captain Magnus himself heaved a tremendous yawn, settled back in
greater comfort against his sustaining tree, and closed his eyes.
I waited, counting the seconds by the beating of the blood in my
ears. In the background Cookie hovered apprehensively. Plainly he
would go on hovering unless loud snores from the pirates gave him
assurance. For myself, I sat fingering my penknife, wondering
whether I ought to rush over and plunge it into the sleepers'
throats. This would be heroic and practical, but unpleasant. If,
on the other hand, I merely tried to free the prisoners and Captain
Magnus woke, what then? The palm where they were tied was a dozen
yards from me, much nearer to the guards, and within range of even
their most languid glance. Beyond the prisoners was Miss Browne,
glaring uncomprehendingly over the edge of her book. There was no
help in Miss Browne.
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