Tari lay motionless and resigned. Jack and Broncho conversed occasionally upon their position with slow, difficult words.
Though a certain amount of salt junk and hard-tack still remained, Jack did not attempt to serve it out, as suffering from thirst as they were, it would have been impossible to swallow any solid.
Towards sundown, after a long silence during which even the babbled mutterings of the poor boy had been inaudible, Broncho, lying in the bottom of the boat, croaked out to Jack, who sat stubborn and erect in the sternsheets, his emaciated hand still gripping the useless steering-oar:
"Say, old son, the deal's near finished. Jim's about through, an' I'm feelin' pretty near the 'Adios!' myself. I guess our last chip will be raked in before maunin'. So long, if my senses jump the track an' go stampedin' off in the night."
"Die hard, Broncho!" was all the other replied, but he shut a pair of swollen lips with a snap of determination, and his eyes shone with the bravery of his spirit.
Then, letting go of the steering-oar, he took the sheath-knife from his belt, and slowly cut a notch in the stock of his revolver, which was still slung at his hip as he had hurriedly slipped it on when leaving the barque.
"This makes the eighth day," he muttered.
"Bite on the bullet, Broncho. We're not beaten yet," he said aloud; and called to the Kanaka, "How you, Tari?"
"Dam fine."