He looked at me desperately. He thought I was going to have all the water.
"I won't take more than my share, Mr. Wheeler," I said. And I looked at Sylvia. She was lying in the stern muttering feebly to herself. She didn't hear.
"God bless you, miss!" said Davis, and burst into an agony of sobs.
The last spoonful of water was handed round, the doctor forcing Sylvia's portion into her mouth.
And we wafted on, only just moving along, for there was no breeze. And the sun beat on us. And the sea glared. And Davis cursed. And Hookway writhed and moaned.
"Take down the sails," said the first mate. "They are useless without any wind. Rig them up as an awning instead."
The men obeyed.
Then the doctor seized a vessel, and filling it with sea-water poured it over Sylvia as she lay, soaking her, clothes and all.
"Oh, doctor!" I expostulated, wonderingly.
"I'm going to drench you too, Miss Sara. It will relieve the thirst," he said.