So they were going to leave him there on the parching sand till nightfall, and then——
"Ned, old boy, you're sure in a bad fix," said the captive lad to himself. "There's not a chance on earth of getting away from here, and even if I could, I have failed in my mission."
The thought that he had not accomplished the duty laid out for him pained the Dreadnought Boy far more than the contemplation of his predicament. With Ned, and with Herc, too, devotion to their ideals of duty was almost a religion. It is so with most of Uncle Sam's Jackies. But, as we know, a few black sheep are bound to crop up in every fold. Ned thought grimly that he had certainly encountered his share.
The sun beat down hotter and hotter upon the boy. Its rays burned his eyes. His lips were swollen, his every bone aching. The tortures of his thirst had almost reached the point of delirium.
Suddenly he felt an acute pain upon his hand. It stung like the thrust of a red-hot knife.
"Ouch!" exclaimed Ned, and rolled over a little.
The pain ceased, and the next instant he discovered what had caused it. His binoculars had been laid upon a rock, one of a few that cropped out here and there in the arid sand.
Clearly the Jap and Kenworth had forgotten to take the glasses with them, for following his binding Ned had been stripped of everything he possessed. They lay with the small ends toward him. The sun streaming through the large lenses became concentrated into two tiny, burning dots of white light at the small end of the glasses.
The binoculars had, in fact, become converted into a burning glass, and the sharp sting on Ned's hand had been caused by one of the discs of concentrated heat. Ned was still engaged on this explanation of his pained hand when there was borne to his nostrils the sharp, acrid odor of burning cloth.
He realized in a flash what had happened. When he rolled over, the disc of burning essence of light had left his hand, but centered itself on some portion of his garments. The cloth was on fire and was smoldering.