CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RELAPSE.
Captain Westfield ate heartily of the delicious fish. Much to his delight, he found that, except for the extreme weakness following his heat prostration, he felt unusually well. He wisely decided not to invite a relapse by getting up at once, and, as soon as he had finished eating, he lay back upon his couch and quietly fell asleep again. It was midday when he awoke feeling much better and stronger. The first thing that met his gaze as he gained a sitting position was Chris lying in the same position in which he had first flung himself. He called to him several times but the little negro lay still and motionless. Thoroughly alarmed, he crawled over and surveyed the unconscious lad. The sight of the enormously swollen leg and a few minutes' fingering of the dark little wrist told him what was the matter. The slow pulse beats showed that the subtile poison, released from its confinement by the removal of the bandage, had found its way to the plucky, loyal, little heart.
The captain sat down by the little fellow's side and dashed the stinging tears from his eyes.
"He's killed himself for me," he moaned. "If he had laid still just as he was he would have been all right. But, God bless him, he risked his life for a poor, old, worthless hulk like me. An' thar ain't nothing I can do to save him now."
Although he had but small faith that it would do any good in such a desperate case, he hastily crushed out a cupful of juice from the palmetto berries and forced it down Chris' throat, then, resuming his seat by his side, he watched to see if the powerful stimulant would have any effect.
As the hours dragged slowly away he rejoiced to see that the lad's condition apparently grew no worse. Encouraged, he crushed out more of the juice and administered it at regular intervals. "I believe he's got a good fighting chance to pull through. If the boys would only get back with some whiskey an' drugs, now, I reckon, we could save him. I wonder what can be keepin' them so long. They've had plenty of time to make Judson and back."
But the afternoon wore away without sign of the rescuers, and a new fear crept into the old sailor's worries. Something must have happened to the two boys. Late in the afternoon, he left Chris long enough to hurry down to the shore in quest of fish or clams for supper. He found the rock from which he had fished completely submerged and a heavy surf thundering far up into the marsh. Under such conditions it was impossible to secure fish or clams, and he returned to camp hungry, disappointed, and with further cause for worry. The heavy surf indicated another storm in the Gulf which might reach where they were. If it did, it would render their position still more uncomfortable and dangerous. A heavy blow would continue to cut off their supply of fish and clams and would likely flood the low-lying marsh shutting them in on their little island. If Chris had been well enough to walk, the captain would have at once moved camp to the mainland, but that was impossible now. By sunset his fears were in a fair way to be realized. The wind was steadily increasing in force, and, blowing out of a clear sky, gave promise of still greater violence. Supperless and worried, the old sailor watched the night fall with but one thing to cheer his drooping spirits—Chris was evidently slowly improving. Likely much of the poison had been drawn out from his wound by the hot mud and the balance remaining had been overcome in its paralyzing effects by the powerful stimulant. The lad's pulse was slowly growing stronger and it was clear that the crisis had been safely passed.
The old sailor was too worried about the absent lads to compose himself to sleep. Already, the surf was sending up small wavelets far into the marsh. If the boys were returning the way they went, their journey would be fraught with perils.
The sky was covered with fleecy clouds but they disappeared with the rising of the moon and by its bright light he could see far out on the water where the huge waves broke foaming white on the outer bar.