't," said Briggs.

"Oh, she's half-way to South Ameriky by this time, sir," said Joe, "and
I shall get all the credit of having lost her."

"Never mind about the boat, Joe."

"Well, sir, if you talk like that, I don't. But it's the skipper who
will mind."

"It's nothing to do with him, Joe. It's uncle's boat; and it wasn't
your fault."

"Thank you, sir. That's a bit comforting like, and warms one up a bit;
but if it's all the same to you I'd raither not talk quite so much, for
I don't know as crocs can hear, but if they can it mightn't be pleasant.
Well, my lads, just another word; we have got to make the best of it
and wait for daylight, and I suppose by that time the tide will have
gone right down, and some on you will be getting dry."

There was silence then, and the men sat holding on to their precarious
perches, listening to an occasional sound from the river or the shore,
loud splashings right away out in the direction of what they supposed to
be the main current, and an occasional trumpeting wail or shriek from
the forest--sounds that chilled and produced blood-curdling sensations
at the first, but to which the men became more and more accustomed as
the hours slowly glided on.

"Look here," said Joe Cross, at last, "because I said I didn't want to
talk, that wasn't meant for you who are all right up above the water.
It's bad enough to be keeping a watch like this on a dark night, but
that is no reason why you chaps shouldn't tell stories and talk and say
something to cheer Mr Rodd up a bit. He had about the worst of it,
swep' out of the boat as he was. So let go, some on you. You've got to
do something, as you can't go to sleep. But I tell you one thing; you
chaps are all much better off than I am. I shan't fall out of my bunk
on the top of any of you. But look here, Harry Briggs, you always want
a lot of stirring up before one can get you to move. Now then; you have
got a bit of pipe of your own. Sing us a song. Good cheery one, with a
chorus--one that Mr Rodd can pick up and chime in. Now then, let go."

"Who's a-going to sing with the water dripping down out of his toes?"

"Why, you, mate," cried Joe. "There, get on with you. You chaps as
knows the best songs always wants the most stirring up, pretending to be
bashful, when you want to begin all the time!"

"I tell you I don't, mate. I'm too cold."

"Then heave ahead, and that'll warm you up. You tell him he is to sing,
Mr Rodd, s