He was then sensible of a dizziness and a roaring in his ears. A black savage face was glaring upon him from the window of the captain's stateroom, from whence protruded the barrel of a rifle. After that his sight grew dim; something wet trickled down on one of his hands, and outward things became a blank. His last sensation was a comfortable kind of sleepiness.
When Ralph came to himself he was lying in the bottom of the boat with his head jammed uncomfortably under one of the thwarts. As he scrambled up, his first thought was of what the captain would say to his falling asleep in that way. But instead of rising, he stumbled and fell. Then he realized that it was morning and that he was unaccountably weak. Pulling himself up again with more care, he stared around for an instant, then sank back against the thwart.
The Wanderer was nowhere to be seen. After another moment he pulled himself up on the seat, in order to assure himself that he was not dreaming. What his eyes had told him was a fact.
He was alone in that little boat, with not a sail or other sign of man's presence anywhere within view. The surprise held him mute and breathless at first, then he began to wonder how he came to be left in such a plight.
His left arm felt stiff and sore. Looking down, he saw the blood had dried on his left hand, while under that shoulder something smarted with every movement.
It came to him then. The report, the numbness, the fleeting glimpse of that savage face, and the gun barrel, were now accounted for.
"While I was mooning away about grandfather and home, that fellow shot me. Lucky he didn't strike closer. But how did I get loose?"
Examination showed him the painter trailing idly in the water alongside. He must have made that half hitch carelessly. During his swoon it had worked loose.
His friends on board had doubtless had their attention too much taken up by the blacks, to give heed to him. The whiffs of air had slowly swept the schooner out of sight and he had lain senseless until daylight.
"I am surely in a bad fix," he reflected. "Wounded—in an open boat—without an oar, or a bite to eat or drink."