Between the two, after half an hour of heartbreaking battling with the current, they managed to shove the raft ashore, where they sank exhausted and panting upon the sand.
As soon as they were able to move, they unlashed the unconscious sailor from the hatch, and, carrying him up, laid him upon the captain's couch. The man seemed nearly dead, and for hours the two, wet, exhausted castaways worked over him, struggling to coax the spark of life into a flame. At last they were rewarded by seeing a tinge of color creep into the bronzed face. At length the sailor sighed and opened his eyes.
"Water," he gasped, faintly.
"Golly! I should reckon he's had 'bout enough water," Chris exclaimed.
"Get some for him quick," Captain Westfield commanded. "The salt brine he has swallowed has parched his throat and stomach."
The sailor took only one mouthful of the proffered water, then spat it out with his face twitching.
"Salt, salt," he murmured.
A horrible fear seized the captain. He snatched the shell from Chris' hand and took a swallow of the water. His fear was confirmed, it was salt. The Gulf had risen close enough to their little well to percolate through the sand into it and render it as salt as itself.
The little negro divined the situation from the captain's face. "Golly! dat's bad," he cried. "Doin' widout water is a heap wurser den doin' widout food."