"Golly!" he remarked, grimly, to himself, "if dem white chillens doan get back wid help an' medicine by mornin', I reckon dis nigger ain't agoin' to see Cat Island and his old mammy no moah. An' if Chris gits plum helpless what's goin' to become ob Massa Captain wid no one to tend to him. He tinks he'll be all right in de mornin' but hits goin' to take a powerful long time for him to get real peart again."
The long night dragged slowly away. Occasionally the little negro crept forth and replenished the fires, the balance of the time he lay quiet listening for cry or sound that would tell of the boys' return, but nothing fell upon his strained hearing but the croak of frogs, the bellowing of alligators and the strange night noises of the marsh.
At daylight the captain awoke and attempted to rise, but, although he was greatly improved, he was yet too weak to stand erect.
"You jes' lie still," Chris counseled him, "dar ain't no call for you to go projectin' around none. I'se goin' out an' git somethin' for us to eat."
Although it cost him intense pain, the little negro managed to walk erect until he was out of the old sailor's sight, then he dropped down on hands and knees and crawled painfully down to the shore.
The touch of the cool salt water helped the throbbing pain in his leg and he succeeded in wading out to the rocks where he was not long in spearing a large, fat mackerel. With this, he returned to the camp, for he did not dare in his growing weakness to search for clams or other food. He found the old sailor asleep again, and, cleaning the fish he broiled it over the coals. As soon as it was done he awakened the sleeper.
"Hyah is youah breakfas' all nice an' hot," he announced. "You want to eat a plenty ob hit. I'se agoin' to lay down a spell. I didn't sleep berry good last night."