of the waves. This seemed to offer a less
precarious refuge than the keel to which he was clinging. He slipped
back into the waves, struck out hurriedly, and dragged himself up to the
highest point of the wet deck. Here, holding to the broken bulwarks, he
peered about for his assistant. Taking for granted that the negro, whom
he knew to be a magnificent swimmer, was clinging to the other side of
the boat, he shouted to him, with angry solicitude, but got no answer.
It was incomprehensible. Starting to his feet he was about to plunge
again into the smother and swim around the boat. Then he checked
himself. Such a step was obviously futile. If the negro had been there,
he would have lost no time in clambering out upon the bottom of the
boat. There was a mystery in that sudden and complete disappearance.
With a shiver Mahoney crouched down again and clutched the lurching
bulwarks.

He had plenty of time now to think. He cursed himself bitterly for the
rash impatience which had driven him to attempt the journey from
Kingston to Santiago in a little sloop, instead of waiting for the
regular steamer, just because he feared the rebellion might fizzle out
before he could get there to make a story of it. His folly had cost the
nigger's life, at least; and the account was not yet closed! Well, the
nigger was gone, poor beggar. His black hide had enclosed a man, all
right; but there was no use worrying over him. The question was, how
soon would a ship come along? This was a frequented sea, more or less.
But the wreck was almost level with the water, and lamentably
inconspicuous. Mahoney knew that unless he were picked up right soon the
tropic sun would drive him mad with thirst. He knew, too, that if any
sort of a wind should blow up, he would promptly have forced upon him
that knowledge of the other world which he was not yet ready to acquire.
It was clear that he must find some means of flying a signal. He decided
that when daylight came he would dive under the upturned boat, cut away
either the gaff or the boom, lash it to the bulwarks, and hoist his
shirt upon it as a flag of distress.

Just before dawn the breeze died away. By the time the east had begun to
flame, and thin washes of red-orange to mottle the sky fantastically,
the long swells were as smooth as glass. Mahoney was impatient to get up
his flagstaff, but he wanted plenty of light. He waited until the sky
was blue, the sun clear of the horizon. Then he stood up,