The dog rose and licked it. Hunger
had done its work on the poor creature, for it could hardly stand, yet
it managed to look in its master's face with that grave, simple gaze of
self-forgetting love, which appears to be peculiar to the canine race.
The savage glare of the seaman's eyes vanished. He dropped the knife.

"Thanks, Cuffy; thanks for stoppin' me. It would have been _murder_!
No, no, my doggie, you and I shall die together."

His voice sank into a murmur, partly from weakness and partly from the
ideas suggested by his concluding words.

"Die together!" he repeated, "surely it ain't come to that _yet_. Wot,
John Jarwin, you're not goin' to give in like that, are you? to haul
down your colours on a fine day with a clear sky like this overhead?
Come, cheer up, lad; you're young and can hold out a good while yet.
Hey, old dog, wot say _you_?"

The dog made a motion that would, in ordinary circumstances, have
resulted in the wagging of its tail, but the tail was powerless to
respond.

At that moment a gull flew towards the raft; Jarwin watched it eagerly
as it approached. "Ah," he muttered, clasping his bony hand as tightly
over his heart as his strength would allow and addressing the gull, "if
I only had hold of _you_, I'd tear you limb from limb, and drink your
blood!"

He watched the bird intently as it flew straight over him. Leaning
back, he continued slowly to follow its flight, until his head rested on
the block of wood which had served him for a pillow. The support felt
agreeable, he forgot the gull, closed his eyes, and sank with a deep
sigh into a slumber that strongly resembled death.

Presently he awoke with a start, and, once more raising himself, gazed
round upon the sea. No ship was to be seen. How often he had gazed
round the watery circle with the same anxious look only to meet with
disappointment! The hills of the coral island were visible like a blue
cloud on the horizon, but Jarwin's eyes were too dim and worn out to
observe them.

"Come," he exclaimed, suddenly, scrambling to his feet, "rouse up,
Cuffy; you an' I ain't a-goin' to die without a good fight for life.
Come along, my hearty; we'll have another glass of grog--Adam's grog it
is, but it has been good grog to you an' me, doggie--an' then we shall
have another inspection o' the locker; mayhap there's the half of a
crumb left."

The comparatively cheery tone in which the sailor said this seemed to
invigorate the do