"Don't talk about it," grunted Jack, with a queer grin. "I'm thinking of all the fresh-water baths I've had."
Undismayed, they joked lightly in the face of a terrible death, though each word was a stab in the throat and their voices grew huskier and weaker every minute.
"Speakin' o' baths," pursued Broncho, "I callate I'll take a swim right here. Mebbe the liquid is due to ooze through my hide an' lay the dust some, even if it ain't deep enough to drown a mosquito."
Jack silently pointed over the quarter to where the long fin of a shark was visible, almost motionless in the water.
"Third day he's been there," muttered the boy, with an irrepressible shudder.
"Soaking one's clothes is a small relief. Let's fill one of the empty breakers," proposed Jack.
"Shower baths! That's a jimdandy idee," said the cowpuncher approvingly.
They were soon scattering salt water over each other, and after this they found some small comfort by keeping their clothes wet.
The following night Lobu broke loose from his padlock, and springing to his feet with a blood-curdling yell, dived overboard, and started swimming up the shining wake of the moonlight.
"Out oars and after him!" cried Jack, springing to the stroke thwart and shipping the long, pliant ash-stick.