I was stiff, weary, unrefreshed. The air
was very still and we were hardly moving. I took a pail of water
that stood near the rail, and, leaning far out, poured it over my
head and shoulders. As I turned, dripping, Jones, relieved of the
wheel, touched me on the arm.
"Go back to sleep, boy," he said kindly. "We need you, and we're
goin' to need you more when we get ashore. You've been talkin' in
your sleep till you plumb scared me."
But I was wide awake by that time, and he had had as little sleep as
I had. I refused, and we went forward together, Jones to get coffee,
which stood all night on the galley stove.
It was still dark. The dawn, even in the less than four weeks we
had been out, came perceptibly later. At the port forward corner of
the after house, Jones stumbled over something, and gave a sharp
exclamation. The next moment he was on his knees, lighting a match.
Burns lay there on his face, unconscious, and bleeding profusely
from a cut on the back of his head--but not dead.
CHAPTER XVII
THE AXE IS GONE
My first thought was of the after house. Jones, who had been fond
of Burns, was working over him, muttering to himself. I felt his
heart, which was beating slowly but regularly, and, convinced that
he was not dying, ran down into the after house.
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