What moment will the boat overturn again?

“Bail, my son!”

“Yessah!” stammers the boy.

The boat is riding southward and backward at a fast rate.  Three hours have passed—­three hours of increasing effort and nerve-straining suspense.

The wounded survivor lies in the stern of the boat.  The boy bails incessantly.  The water is thrown in at the stern in passing over the boat from the prow.

“It’s bad on that rooster!” says Corkey, as he hears the water dashing on the prostrate form.  “Wonder if his head is out of the drink?”

“Yessah!” stammers the boy, feeling slowly in the stern.

The work and the fear settle into a sodden, unbroken period of three hours more.  Growing familiarity with the seas aids Corkey in holding the craft to the wind.  But how long can he last?  How long can he defy the wind?

“Bail, my son!” he begs.

“Yessah,” stammers the boy.

The gray light begins to touch the east.  Corkey has lived an age since he saw that light.  He is afraid of it now.

A cloud moves by and the morning bursts on the group.

Busy as he is, Corkey is eager to see the man in the stern.

“Holy smoke!” says the oarsman.

“Yessah!” stammers the obedient lad.

The face on the stern seat startles Corkey.  The nose is broken, the lips are cut, some of the front teeth are gone and the face has been bloody.  It is like a wound poulticed white.  It has been wet and cold all night.

“Lockwin, isn’t it you?” asks Corkey, greatly moved at a sight so affecting.

“It is,” signals Lockwin.  The voice is inaudible to Corkey.

The head rises and Corkey strains his ear.

“I’m dying, Corkey.  God bless you.  I wanted to thank you.”

“God bless you, Lockwin.  We’re all in the same boat.  I’m glad we caught you!”

The mascot moves toward the sinking man.

The head falls again on the stern seat.  The body is in ten inches of water.

The boat is moving rapidly.

“Want to send any word home, Lockwin?”

There is a pause.  There is an effort to speak of money.  There is another effort.

“He s-a-ays put a st-st-stone at Davy’s-s-s-s-s grave,” interprets the stammerer.

“Who’s Davy?” asks the oarsman.  “What else did he say?”

“H-h-h-he’s dead!” says the lad.

“Bail! bail!” answers the man.  “Let’s g-g-get ’im out!” suggests the boy in a half-hour.  Corkey has been sobbing.

“I thought a heap of Lockwin,” he answers.

“I d-d-don’t like a d-d-dead man in the boat!”

“Bail, you moke!  I’ll throw you in!”

But Corkey’s voice is far from menacing.  Corkey is weak.  Now he sees the boy’s face in dreadful contortions.  The lad is trying to speak quickly, and can make no noise at all.

He rises and points.  He is frantic.