They gazed longingly after it until lost to view. When it had disappeared in the distance they felt an intensified loneliness and helplessness steal over them.
The only consolation in their wretched plight was the sun. It shone brightly down with a warmth grateful to their wet, chilled bodies.
"How fast do you think we are drifting, Captain?" inquired Charley, breaking the silence that had fallen upon them.
"Impossible to tell, exactly," returned the old sailor. "As a guess, I would say about five miles an hour."
"And we have been drifting about six hours, that would make thirty miles," the lad calculated. "If I remember the charts right that brings us about off of Tampa. Do you recall how the coast lies below there, Captain?"
"Not exactly," admitted the old sailor, "but I think it holds about the same direction. Of course, there are a good many capes running out into the gulf, but I don't think there is any of them long enough for us to pile up on, short of Cape Sable, and that's a couple of hundred miles away."
"So far so good, then," Charley commented. "We are in no immediate danger of piling up on shore at any rate. Whew, but the salt spray has made me thirsty as a fish. Here goes to get a drink of water." He crawled cautiously forward to the locker where the jugs were stowed.
"Both broken," he announced, after a glance inside. "I might have known it would happen with all the rolling and pitching about. Well, I guess we can manage to do without until the wind goes down."
But before noon, they realized that the loss of their water was a serious blow. The salt spray and hot sun gave them a painful thirst. Their throats grew parched and dry, and they could barely swallow the remnants of food left from their supper. All attempt at conversation was given up and they sat huddled and silent in the little cockpit.