“Take a bit, sir. Keeps you from feeling quite so bad.”
“No, my man,” said Syd, smiling feebly, “keep it for yourself.”
Then turning to Roylance, he looked at him wonderingly.
“Did I dream you said something about writing?”
“No. You told me you had written a despatch.”
“No. No: I wrote nothing,” said the boy, vacantly. “It ought to be done, to say that we held out to the last.”
“My father will see that,” said Syd, gravely. “Amen!” cried the boatswain, in his deep hoarse voice, and he drew back, and then staggered forward to drop down for a few moments. He rose again.
“Worst o’ being an orficer, Mr Roylance, sir,” he said. “Don’t matter what happens we mustn’t give way.”
How that day glided on none could tell. It was like some horrible dream, during which the sun had never been hotter to them, and the rock seemed to glow. Three times now in a half delirious way Syd had been into the hut, to find Mr Dallas sleeping, for though he suffered terribly, his pangs did not seem so bad as those of his stronger companions in adversity.
But at last Syd passed Terry lying with his eyes closed; and with Roylance staggering after him almost as wild and delirious as he, they paused by the hut where Mr Dallas lay. Syd passed his hand over his eyes to clear away the mist which hung before him and obscured his sight, and then, fairly sane for the moment, he looked about him to see that every man was prostrate, and that his faithful henchman, Barney Strake, was leaning against a rock, helpless now.