“Know you?—of course. What made you say that?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Roy, poor fellow, you are suffering from the heat. There’s no ship in sight, but you and I mustn’t give up; we must set an example to the men.—No, no, Barney, I tell you I will not go.”
“Terry, Mike Terry, come and help me,” cried Roylance; but the midshipman did not stir from where he lay under a shadowing rock.
“Not for a hundred of you I would not go. Eh! Water—where? Ah, beautiful water! Can’t you hear it splashing? Plenty to-night. Rain.”
“Come into the shade, Belt,” said Roylance, who felt now that their last day had come, and that there was nothing to be done now but lie down and die.
“No,” said Syd, sharply, “I want to see the men. How are the poor fellows?”
He staggered down to where the men not on duty were lying in the shade cast by the rocks, and the boatswain, who seemed to have been talking to them, rose.
“Sad work, sir,” he said, touching his hat; and several of the men rose and saluted, others lying staring and helpless, their lips black, and a horrible delirious look in their eyes.
“No ship, Barney,” whispered Syd, huskily.