situated as we were now, with no wood to make
a boat of but the scattered splinters from the
ship, and with no tools to use even that much,
there might just as well have been no land in
sight at all, so far as we were concerned. The
poor hope of a ship coming our road, was still
the only hope left. To give us all the little
chance we might get that way, I now looked
about on the beach for the longest morsel of a
wrecked spar that I could find; planted it on
the high ground; and rigged up to it the one
shirt I had on my back for a signal. While
coming and going on this job, I noted with
great joy that rain water enough lay in the
hollows of the rocks above the sea line, to save
our small store of fresh water for a week at
least. Thinking it only fair to the supercargo
to let him know what I had found out, I went
to his territories, after setting up the morsel of
a spar, and discreetly shouted my news down to
him without showing myself. "Keep to your
own side!" was all the thanks I got for this
piece of civility. I went back to my own side
immediately, and crawled into my little cavern,
quite content to be alone. On that first night,
strange as it seems now, I once or twice nearly
caught myself feeling happy at the thought of
being rid of Mr. Lawrence Clissold.

According to my calculations—which were
made by tying a fresh knot every morning in a
piece of marline—we two men were just a week,
each on his own side of the island, without
seeing or communicating, anyhow, with one
another. The first half of the week, I had
enough to do with cudgelling my brains for a
means of helping ourselves, to keep my mind
steady.

I thought first of picking up all the longest
bits of spars that had been cast ashore, lashing
them together with ropes twisted out of the
long grass on the island, and trusting to raft-
navigation to get to that high land away in the
south. But when I looked among the spars,
there were not half a dozen of them left whole
enough for the purpose. And even if there
had been more, the short allowance of food
would not have given me time sufficient, or
strength sufficient, to gather the grass, to twist
it into ropes, and to lash a raft together big
enough and strong enough for us two men.
There was nothing to be done, but to give up
this notion—and I gave it up. The next
chance I thought of was to keep a fire burning
on the shore every night, with the wood of the
wreck, in case vessels at sea might notice it,
on one side—or the people of the high land in
the south (if the distance was not too great)
might notice it, on the other. There was sense
in this notion, and it could be turned to account
the moment the wood was dry enough to burn.
The wood got dry enough before the week was
out. Whether it was the end of the stormy season
in those latitudes, or whether it was only the
shifting of the wind to the west, I don't know—
but now, day after day, the heavens were clear
and the sun shone scorching hot. The scrub
on the island (which was of no great account)
dried up—but the fresh water in the hollows of
the rocks (which was, on the other hand, a
serious business) dried up too. Troubles seldom
come alone; and on the day when I made this
discovery, I also found out that I had calculated
wrong about the food. Eke it out as I might,
with scurvy grass and roots, there would not be
above eight days more of it left when the first
week was past and, as for the fresh water,
half a pint a day, unless more rain fell, would
leave me at the end of my store, as nearly as I
could guess, about the same time.

This was a bad look-out—but I don't think
the prospect of it upset me in my mind, so much
as the having nothing to do. Except for the
gathering of the wood, and the lighting of the
signal-fire, every night, I had no work at all,
towards the end of the week, to keep me steady.
I checked myself in thinking much about home,
for fear of losing heart, and not holding out to
the last, as became a man. For the same reasons
I likewise kept my mind from raising hopes of
help in me which were not likely to come true.
What else was there to think about? Nothing
but the man on the other side of the island—
and be hanged to him!

I thought about those words I heard him say
in his sleep; I thought about how he was
getting on by himself; how he liked nothing
but water to drink, and little enough of that;
how he was eking out his food; whether he
slept much or not; whether he saw the smoke
of my fire at night, or not; whether he held up
better or worse than I did; whether he would
be glad to see me, if I went to him to make it
up; whether he or I would die first; whether
if it was me, he would do for me, what I would
have done for him—namely, bury him, with the
last strength I had left. All these things, and
lots more, kept coming and going in my mind,
till I could stand it no longer. On the morning
of the eighth day, I roused up to go to his
territories, feeling it would do me good to see him
and hear him, even if we quarrelled again the
instant we set eyes on each other.

I climbed up to the grassy ground—and,
when I got there, what should I see but the
supercargo himself, coming to my territories,
and wandering up and down in the scrub
through not knowing where to find them!

It almost knocked me over, when we met,
the man was changed so. He looked eighty
years old; the little flesh he had on his
miserable face hung baggy; his blue spectacles had
dropped down on his nose, and his eyes showed
over them wild and red-rimmed; his lips were
black, his legs staggered under him. He
came up to me with his eyes all of a glare,
and put both his hands on my breast, just over
the pocket in which I kept that flask of ginger-
brandy which he had tried to steal from me.

"Have you got any of it left?" says he, in a
whisper.

"About two mouthfuls," says I.

"Give us one of them, for God's sake,"
says he.

Giving him one of those mouthfuls was just