As he
scrambled up, his first thought was of what the captain would say to
his falling asleep in that way. But instead of rising, he stumbled and
fell. Then he realized that it was morning and that he was
unaccountably weak. Pulling himself up again with more care, he stared
around for an instant, then sank back against the thwart.
The Wanderer was nowhere to be seen. After another moment he pulled
himself up on the seat, in order to assure himself that he was not
dreaming. What his eyes had told him was a fact.
He was alone in that little boat, with not a sail or other sign of
man's presence anywhere within view. The surprise held him mute and
breathless at first, then he began to wonder how he came to be left in
such a plight.
His left arm felt stiff and sore. Looking down, he saw the blood had
dried on his left hand, while under that shoulder something smarted
with every movement.
It came to him then. The report, the numbness, the fleeting glimpse of
that savage face, and the gun barrel, were now accounted for.
"While I was mooning away about grandfather and home, that fellow shot
me. Lucky he didn't strike closer. But how did I get loose?"
Examination showed him the painter trailing idly in the water
alongside. He must have made that half hitch carelessly. During his
swoon it had worked loose.
His friends on board had doubtless had their attention too much taken
up by the blacks, to give heed to him. The whiffs of air had slowly
swept the schooner out of sight and he had lain senseless until
daylight.
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