Next morning not a timber of the unfortunate Flora M'Vayne was to be seen. She had been sucked backwards with that great tidal wave, and was engulfed in the deeper water farther out.
As ill-luck would have it, most of the carpenter's tools had been left on board, for until the storm came on--when they had to rush on shore for dear life's sake--the men had been busy cutting out pieces of plank with which to fashion a boat.
There was not the slightest chance of building such a thing now, and the water grew scarcer and scarcer.
A raft was then thought of, but in the weakened condition of the men for want of water it would take a long time to build.
"There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! A weary time!
How glazed each weary eye!"
Once more fell rain. Once more the little rocky tank, which was always left exposed at night, was filled, and once again the men's eyes brightened.
During the gale of wind that had resulted in the wreck of the Flora M'Vayne, the poor monkey had been washed overboard, but old Pen was still here, and so, too, was honest Vike.
They had suffered as much from the want of water as anyone, but to the credit of our heroes be it told, they received their daily water ration.
Old Pen used to waltz with joy when he had taken a drink, but Vike was less demonstrative, only he never failed to lick the hand with loving tongue that served the water out.
But hope rose higher now. That water would last for weeks--would last, perhaps, till water came again. Hope rose to a pitch of excitement that no one who has never known shipwreck, or never known what it is to float a mere hulk upon a breezeless sea, can form any conception of, when, just as the sun leapt red and fiery above the main next morning, a steamer was observed but a few miles away in the west. God! how the men rushed to the cliff edge, and how wildly they waved their arms, their coats, and shouted. Shouted and shouted until every tongue