He went down again and rooted about everywhere, found two kegs in the cabin under the torn hangings, and another in Macro's room, with a spigot in it. He carried them up on deck, staved in the heads with his axe, and emptied them overboard. In the main-hold he found three more and did the same with them.
"When he gets through, his throat will be like a lime-kiln. There is a bucket of water down there. I will put in it the coffee we left from breakfast and leave it in his cabin. It will be the best thing for him if he will drink it. But he'll be crazy for rum—— I'll take you back and get the coffee. I'm sorry you came."
There was strong disapproval in his tone, but she did not resent it. After all, his thought was entirely for her in the matter.
"You're sure he won't fly at you?" she asked anxiously.
"He's much too busy with the birds. Besides, I shall not touch him or speak to him. It is best to leave him to himself. We will leave some food by him also," and she obediently let herself down before him on to the raft.
"It does seem absurd——" she began impulsively, as they joggled along.
"To keep him alive so that he may try again to kill us,"—he nodded. "I know. But there it is, as the country-folk say. However, he won't live long if he keeps on at the rum. As soon as he gets better he'll go straight out to the pile to get more, unless he's too weak. It's terribly wasteful work, what he's at, and no food to work on."
"Whether it's wrong or not, I cannot help wishing he would die," she said passionately. "It is too dreadful."
"I don't want his blood on my hands if I can help it," he said briefly. But he felt as she did.
XLIII