But it is said that drowning men will cling to a straw, and Harry was in immediate danger of drowning. His thoughts were fixed in all their intensity upon the remote contingency of a vessel’s passing. He almost forgot that he was hungry. But, as the morning advanced, the craving for food made itself unpleasantly felt. There was a gnawing at his stomach (for he had eaten but lightly the evening before), which there was no chance of appeasing. Harry knew well that this feeling would grow stronger and stronger, until it became so agonizing as to make life a burden. But there was always one relief, though a desperate one. He could release his hold of the plank, and sink down into the deep waves, which, merciless as they were, were more merciful than hunger and thirst, for while the first brings protracted agony, the last affords a speedy relief for all trouble.
After a while, thirst as well as hunger began to torment him. The salt meat, which affords the staple of a sailor’s diet, induces thirst more rapidly than ordinary food. So by noon his throat was parched with thirst. He felt the tantalizing character of his situation; “Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.” He was half tempted to taste of the water in which he was immersed; but he knew that, so far from affording relief, it would only entail additional suffering, and, strong though the temptation was, he had the prudence and self-denial to forbear.
Then, besides, partly owing to his sleeplessness, his head began to throb with pain, and, altogether, the poor boy’s situation was becoming desperate. It seemed as if his career was likely to terminate very speedily.
While our hero is in this precarious condition, we must, for a brief time, change the scene.
Sailing steadily towards him, though he knew it not, was the Australian packet-ship Rubicon, bound from Liverpool to Melbourne.
It was a pleasant day, and most of the passengers were on deck, enjoying the calm weather. Some had been sea-sick; but even those who were most inclined to be disturbed by this most disagreeable of maladies, could find no good cause for keeping below on so pleasant a day. The sea was tranquil, the movement of the vessel calm and steady, and as such days are not often to be reckoned upon, the passengers determined to make the most of this.
Among the passengers were David Lindsay, a gentleman of middle age, and his daughter Maud, a bright, handsome girl of thirteen. Mr. Lindsay was a London merchant, who, partly for the benefit of his health, which had been affected by too great devotion to business, partly because he had business interests in Australia, had decided to go out to Melbourne on a visit. He had not at first proposed to take his daughter, considering her too young; but she was an only child, and, as her mother was dead, had been treated by her father more as a companion than is usual with girls of her age. So, when her father mentioned his plan, Maud at once said confidently, “Oh, that will be charming, papa! How much I shall enjoy it!”
“How much you will enjoy it,” repeated her father. “Well, Maud, I can’t say that your remark is particularly complimentary to me.”
“Why not?” asked Maud, innocently.
“I tell you that I am going to Australia,—a journey likely to keep me away from home a year at least, and you are so ready to part with me that you say at once that it is charming.”