“I almost feel so myself,” rejoined the sailor, his countenance resuming its wonted expression of cheerfulness. “After what’s happened, one could not think otherwise; but let us remember, lad, that He is up aloft, an’ has done so much for us, expecting us to do what we can for ourselves. He puts the work within our reach, an’ then leaves us to do it. Now here’s this fine supply o’ water. If we was to let that go to loss, it would be our own fault, not his, an’ we’d deserve to die o’ thirst for it.”
“What is to be done, Ben? How are we to keep it?”
“That’s just what I’m thinkin’ about. In a very short while the rain will be over. I know the sort o’ it. It be only one o’ these heavy showers as falls near the line, and won’t last more than half an hour,—if that. Then the sun ’ll be out as hot as ever, an’ will lick up the water most as fast as it fell,—that is, if we let it lie there. Yes, in another half o’ an hour that tarpolin would be as dry as the down upon a booby’s back.”
“O dear! what shall we do to prevent evaporating?”
“Jest give me a minute to consider,” rejoined the sailor, scratching his head, and putting on an air of profound reflection; “maybe afore the rain quits comin’ down, I’ll think o’ some way to keep it from evaporating; that’s what you call the dryin’ o’ it up.”
Ben remained for some minutes silent, in the thoughtful attitude he had assumed,—while William, who was equally interested in the result of his cogitations, watched his countenance with an eager anxiety.
Soon a joyful expression revealed itself to the glance of the boy, telling him that his companion had hit upon some promising scheme.
“I think I ha’ got it, Will’m,” said he; “I think I’ve found a way to stow the water even without a cask.”
“You have!” joyfully exclaimed William. “How, Ben?”
“Well, you see, boy, the tarpolin holds water as tight as if ’twere a glass bottle. I tarred it myself,—that did I, an’ as I never did my work lubber-like, I done that job well. Lucky I did, warn’t it, William?”