“Very well, then I’ll take from eight to eleven, Joe can take from eleven to two, and Mr. Skeel from two to five. By that time it’ll be light.”
“But where do I come in?” asked Tom.
“You’ll stay with him,” whispered Abe, winking his eye, and nodding at little Jackie. Then Tom understood.
The night passed without incident, the child sleeping peacefully with Tom. Some pieces of the canvas served as a bed, and little was needed in the way of covering, for it was quite warm, and their clothing had dried out.
“No vessels sighted?” asked Tom in the morning, as they prepared for the simple breakfast.
“Not a one,” answered Mr. Skeel shortly. “I don’t believe we’ll ever be rescued.”
“Oh, stow that kind of talk,” commanded Abe, half roughly. “Of course we will. Why, our voyage has only just begun.”
Dreary days followed. The food and water was divided with scrupulous care, for there was no telling how long the scanty store of each would have to last. They went on three-quarter rations—that is, all but Jackie, who had his full share, though in the matter of water he did not use as much as any of the others.
The hours and days passed, and their straining eyes saw no sign of a sail, and no welcome land loomed into view. Their progress was slow—slower than they had any idea of, for the sail was small and the derelict low in the water, and heavy. Dreary and more dreary became the time.