"We must not give way to despair," said the Conch, who seemed like another man after his devotions. "Let's dig another well right in the midst of the island, perhaps we can get water fit to drink."
With but little hope the three fell to work and by noon had dug a hole to water, but they had only their labor for their pains, the water was salt, bitter, and undrinkable. Indeed their labor was worse than fruitless for their exertions had greatly increased their thirst.
Chris kindled a fire and roasted some of the turtle meat and eggs, but the castaways only partook of a few mouthfuls, as eating seemed but to increase their thirst.
The Conch had lost his hat when wrecked and Chris, observing his bare head, set about braiding him another hat from the green palmetto leaves.
The Sponger watched him with interest. "Do yo' think yo' could make a water-tight mat of that stuff?" he enquired, eagerly.
"Golly! I reckon, dis nigger could," declared the little darkey. "I'se done made baskets ob hit dat would hold water like a bucket."
"How long would it take yo' to make a mat four feet square?"
The little negro considered, "I guess I could do hit in a day."
"Then drop that hat business and get to work on hit. Work like yo' never did before. There's a chance, jes' a chance, that it will be the saving of us. Captain, there is work for us to do. Get the entrails out of one of those turtle shells. Clean them out good, pack them full of sand, and stretch them out in the sun to dry. I've got a plan in mind. It may fail, but it's worth trying. Be careful not to break the skins."