On the twenty-sixth day McGuffey crawled into the
shadow of a stunted mimosa bush and started to pray!
To Mr. Gibney this was an infallible sign that McGuffey was now
delirious. In the shadow of a neighbouring bush Captain Scraggs
babbled of steam beer in the Bowhead saloon, and the commodore,
stifling his own agony, watched his comrades until their lips and
tongues, parched with thirst, refused longer to produce even a
moan, and silence settled over the dismal camp.
It was the finish. The commodore knew it, and sat with bowed head
in his gaunt arms, wondering, wondering. Slowly his body began to
sway; he muttered something, slid forward on his face, and lay
still. And as he lay there on the threshold of the unknown he
dreamed that the _Maggie II_ came into view around the headland,
a bone in her teeth and every stitch of canvas flying. He saw her
luff up into the wind and hang there shivering; a moment later
her sails came down by the run, and he saw a little splash under
her port bow as her hook took bottom. There was a commotion on
decks, and then to Mr. Gibney's dying ears came faintly the
shouts and songs of the black boys as a whaleboat shot into the
breakers and pulled swiftly toward the beach.
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