Harry's palate was less
particular.
On awaking, and after breaking our fast, we were both filled with
an odd contentment. I really believe that we had abandoned hope,
and that the basis of our listlessness was despair; and surely
not without reason. For what chance had we to escape from the
Incas, handicapped as we were by the darkness, and our want of
weapons, and their overwhelming numbers?
And beyond that--if by some lucky chance we did escape--what
remained? To wander about in the endless caves of darkness and
starve to death. At the time I don't think I stated the case,
even to myself, with such brutal frankness, but facts make their
impression whether you invite them or not. But, as I say, we were
filled with an odd contentment. Though despair may have possessed
our hearts, it was certainly not allowed to infect our tongues.
Breakfast was hilarious. Harry sang an old drinking-song to the
water-basin with touching sentiment; I gave him hearty applause
and joined in the chorus. The cavern rang.
"The last time I sang that," said Harry as the last echoes died
away, "was at the Midlothian. Bunk Stafford was there, and Billy
Du Mont, and Fred Marston--I say, do you remember Freddie? And
his East Side crocodiles?
"My, but weren't they daisies? And polo? They could play it in
their sleep.
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