“I think he's got it through the lungs,” answered Wilbur, frowning in distress and perplexity. “Poor old Charlie!”
Moran went down on a knee, and put a finger on the slim, corded wrist, yellow as old ivory.
“Charlie,” she called—“Charlie, here, don't you know me? Wake up, old chap! It's Moran. You're not hurt so very bad, are you?”
Charlie's eyes closed and opened a couple of times.
“No can tell,” he answered feebly; “hurt plenty big”; then he began to cough.
Wilbur drew a sigh of relief. “He's all right!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, I think he's all right,” assented Moran.
“First thing to do now is to get him aboard the schooner,” said Wilbur. “We'll take him right across in the beach-combers' dory here. By Jove!” he exclaimed on a sudden. “The ambergris—I'd forgotten all about it.” His heart sank. In the hideous confusion of that morning's work, all thought of the loot had been forgotten. Had the battle been for nothing, after all? The moment the beach-combers had been made aware of the meditated attack, it would have been an easy matter for them to have hidden the ambergris—destroyed it even.
In two strides Wilbur had reached the beach-combers' dory and was groping in the forward cuddy. Then he uttered a great shout of satisfaction. The “stuff” was there, all of it, though the mass had been cut into quarters, three parts of it stowed in tea-flails, the fourth still reeved up in the hammock netting.
“We've got it!” he cried to Moran, who had followed him. “We've got it, Moran! Over $100,000. We're rich—rich as boodlers, you and I. Oh, it was worth fighting for, after all, wasn't it? Now we'll get out of here—now we'll cut for home.”