"Dick, do'ee think the cutter will pick us up?"
"Hardly; you see, she can't do much with her mainmast gone, and then the tide is ebbing."
Hours passed and the sickening sense of weakness became stronger and stronger, and that weary, pallid expression, the presage of unconsciousness, swept o'er Ande's countenance and remained there. It was Dick who realised it first, and he flung his own great arms o'er those of Ande, binding him to the spar with his own strength.
"Hold on. Don't give in."
"Dick, I was shot in the arm coming down the cliff, and I think that's what's making me weak."
"Weather it out until daylight and we shall be picked up. Some one is bound to see us."
"Dick, do 'ee think we did right in warning the smugglers?" asked Ande, weakly.
"Aye," said Dick, stoutly; "they were honest men trying to earn a living."
"Because,—you see—you'll get through all right, but I—I'm getting weaker every minute, and I can't hold out much longer—and a fellow thinks of these things when he hasn't long to live."