"I—I gave my share to Mrs. Miller," she whispered.
"I know you did," Craig answered. "This is my share."
"But—"
"Water would only rust my stomach," he said. "Take it."
The girl drank. She looked at Craig. There were stars in her eyes.
He leaned forward and patted her on the shoulder. "You'll do, Margy," he said. "You'll do."
The boat floated in the glassy sea. The long ground swell of the Pacific, marching aimlessly toward some unknown shore, lifted it steadily up and down, giving the boat the appearance of moving. An empty tin can, thrown overboard three days previously, floated beside the boat. A school of flying fish, fleeing from some pursuing maw beneath the surface, skipped from wave to wave.
Besides Craig, Margy Sharp, and Mrs. Miller, there were three other persons in the boat, all men. They were: English, a blond youth; Michaelson, a little bird of a man who seemed not yet to have comprehended what had happened to them, or to care; and Voronoff, whose chief distinguishing characteristic was a pair of furtive eyes. English had been wounded. He sat up and looked over the side of the boat. Pointing, he suddenly cried out:
"Look! Look! There's a dragon! A flying dragon!"