The Vent-Peg.
Oh! how I drank of that delicious water! I thought I should never be satisfied; but at length satiety was produced, and I thirsted no more.
The effect was not immediate—the first long draught did not relieve me, or only for a time. I longed again, and again placed my lips to the spouting stream; and this I did repeatedly, until the longing returned not, and the pangs of thirst were forgotten as if I had never felt them!
It is beyond the power of the imagination to form any idea of the agony of thirst—mere fancy cannot realise it. It must be experienced to be known, but a proof of its intensity might be given by adducing the horrible alternatives to which men have resorted when reduced to the extremity of this torturing pain. And yet, withal, as soon as the craving is appeased, so soon as a sufficient quantity of water has passed the lips, the pain exists no more, but ends with the suddenness of a dream! No other bodily ill can be so quickly healed.
My thirst was now gone, and I felt buoyant; but my habitual prudence did not forsake me. During the intervals when my lips were removed from the vent, I had kept the water from running by pressing the end of my fore-finger into the hole, and using it as a stopper. Something whispered me that it would be well not to waste the precious fluid, and I resolved to obey the suggestion. When I had finished drinking, I used my finger as before; but after a little, I grew tired of making a vent-peg of my finger, and looked about for something else. I groped all over the bottom timbers, but could find nothing—not the smallest piece of stick within reach of my right hand. It was the fore-finger of my left that was playing vent-peg; and I dared not remove it, else the water would have gushed forth in a tolerably thick, and therefore a wasteful, jet.
I bethought me of a piece of cheese, and I drew what remained from my pocket. It was of too excellent a quality for the purpose, and crumbled as I applied it to the aperture. It was forced out of my fingers by the strength of the spouting water. A biscuit would have been equally unserviceable. What was I to do?
In answer to this interrogatory, it occurred to me that I might caulk the hole with a rag from my jacket. It was fustian, and would answer admirably.
No sooner thought of, than with my knife I cut a piece from the flap, and placing it over the hole, and punching it well in with the blade, I succeeded in stopping the run, though I could perceive that it yet leaked a little. This, however, would not signify. I only intended the piece of cloth for a temporary stopper, until I could cast around, and contrive something better.
I was once more free to reflect, and I need not tell you that my reflections soon guided me back to despair. To what purpose had I been saved from death by thirst? It would only be a protraction of my misery—a few hours more of wretched existence—for certainly I must meet death by hunger. There was no alternative. My little stock was almost consumed. Two biscuits, and a handful of cheese-crumbs, were all that remained. I might make another meal upon them—a very slight one; and then—ay, then—hunger, gnawing hunger—weakness—feebleness—exhaustion—death!
Strange to say that while suffering from thirst, I had not thought of dying by hunger. It would be more exact to say I had scarce thought of it. At intervals, some glimpses of such a fate had been before my mind’s eye; but, as I have already stated, the stronger agony eclipsed the weaker, and rendered it almost uncared for.