“Tom, I want my daddy!” whined Jackie. “Why don’t you get him for me?”
“I will—soon,” said Tom brokenly, as he tried to comfort the little chap.
They were down to their last bit of food, and the last keg of water. The latter they had used with the utmost economy, for they knew they could live longer without food than without water. And yet there was scarcely a pint left, and it was hardly fit to drink.
They were all very thin, and the skin on their faces seemed drawn and tight. Their tongues were thick, and dark, so they could hardly speak. Jackie had been better fed, and had had more water than the others, and yet even he was failing.
Abe and Joe, being more hardy, had, perhaps, suffered less, but their privations were telling on them. Mr. Skeel had lost much of his plumpness, and his clothes hung on him like the rags on a scarecrow in a cornfield.
As for Tom, he bore up bravely. Day by day he had tightened his belt that he might “make his hunger smaller,” as the Indians say. He had even given Jackie part of his food and water.
Night came, the long lonesome night, and yet it was welcome, for it took away the blazing sun. What would the morning bring?
They were all partly delirious that night. Tom found himself murmuring in his sleep, and he heard the others doing the same. Abe collapsed at the wheel, and Joe had to do a double trick. He would not let Tom relieve him.
Toward morning the last water was doled out. No one felt like eating.
“I—I guess this is the end,” murmured Joe. “We’ve made a good fight—but—this is—the—end.”