That being the case he stood still less of a chance of attracting the attention of some vessel than he had first hoped.
With such unpleasant thoughts to bear him company, Nat passed the night away, clinging to his friendly log. It was to its timely arrival that he owed the fact that he was on the surface of the ocean instead of being drowned from exhaustion.
The sun rose on an unclouded expanse of sea. The water shone as bluely under the rays of the luminary as did the sky. A burning, intense steel-like blue.
Nat, casting despairingly about for a sail, or the sign of a ship, could meet with nothing to mar the desolate monotony of the ocean wastes. He seemed to be alone on the wide, spreading waters.
As the sun rose higher it grew hotter. All the world seemed to be on fire. The heat burned the salt into Nat's drenched skin and caused him excruciating pain.
By noon the lad, suffering intensely for lack of water, was half delirious. Floating out there in the broad Pacific on a weed-grown, barnacled log, he babbled of green shady groves and running mountain streams.
He heard his voice rattling on in its delirium with the detached interest of a person listening to somebody else.
Yet he knew it was himself talking in that rambling, foolish way.
"I must be going crazy!" he gasped. "Oh, heaven! for one drop of cold water."
He raised his eyes and beheld, coming toward him, something that almost made him release his grip of the log from sheer astonishment.