The remaining half of the canoe was just behind him, and dragging his body a foot or more over the raft he fell back against it with a groan of agony.
The glowing embers of the fire shed a dim light over the scene. On his right lay Sir Arthur, white and motionless. On the left was Bildad, his arms and legs drawn up about his body in the throes of suffering. Near the front of the raft lay the colonel, face downward on the logs, and close by was the Greek, his white features turned toward the firelight.
One alone showed any signs of life. Melton was leaning over the edge apparently drinking, and presently he raised his head and crawled feebly toward the fire.
“How long have I slept?” asked Guy in a hoarse whisper.
Melton turned in astonishment as though frightened by the sound of a human voice.
“I don’t know,” he said, speaking with a great effort. “Hours, Chutney, hours. A day and a night must have passed since I cracked that fellow there on the head. I hoped you would never wake. This is like dying a thousand times over. It won’t last long now. A few hours at the most—and then—”
“But tell me,” interrupted Guy, “the rest, are they—are they——”
“Dead?” said Melton. “No, I think not. Very near the end, though. They can’t move. They can’t even reach the edge of the raft to drink. Water has kept me up a little.”
Crawling inch by inch, he drew himself beside Guy and propped his back against the canoe. They sat side by side, too exhausted to speak, mercifully indifferent to their fate.
It is doubtful if they realized their position. The last stages of starvation had blunted their sensibilities, thrown a veil over their reasoning faculties.