Syd Belton

"Poor lad! Oh, Mr Roylance, sir, I'd give my last drop o' blood if I could save him."

Syd started up and then looked round wildly, as he made a desperate effort to ward off the delirium that was attacking him.

"Keep in the shade, my lads," he said. "Please G.o.d we shall get rain to-night, or help will come."

The men stared at him in stupid silence, all but Rogers, who feebly hacked off a bit of a cake of tobacco, and struggled up to offer it.

"Take a bit, sir. Keeps you from feeling quite so bad."

"No, my man," said Syd, smiling feebly, "keep it for yourself."

Then turning to Roylance, he looked at him wonderingly.

"Did I dream you said something about writing?"

"No. You told me you had written a despatch."

"No. No: I wrote nothing," said the boy, vacantly. "It ought to be done, to say that we held out to the last."

"My father will see that," said Syd, gravely. "Amen!" cried the boatswain, in his deep hoa.r.s.e voice, and he drew back, and then staggered forward to drop down for a few moments. He rose again.

"Worst o' being an orficer, Mr Roylance, sir," he said. "Don't matter what happens we mustn't give way."

How that day glided on none could tell. It was like some horrible dream, during which the sun had never been hotter to them, and the rock seemed to glow. Three times now in a half delirious way Syd had been into the hut, to find Mr Dallas sleeping, for though he suffered terribly, his pangs did not seem so bad as those of his stronger companions in adversity.

But at last Syd pa.s.sed Terry lying with his eyes closed; and with Roylance staggering after him almost as wild and delirious as he, they paused by the hut where Mr Dallas lay. Syd pa.s.sed his hand over his eyes to clear away the mist which hung before him and obscured his sight, and then, fairly sane for the moment, he looked about him to see that every man was prostrate, and that his faithful henchman, Barney Strake, was leaning against a rock, helpless now.

He saw it all; it meant the end. Had there been a cool, moist night even to look forward to, they might have lived till another day, but there were many hours of pitiless suns.h.i.+ne yet in the hottest time when the glare was right along the gap.

"It is the end," he said, half-aloud. "Roy, lad, I should like to shake hands first with Terry."

He took a step

"I do it in my heart," he said. "Come and bid Mr Dallas good-bye."

"Are--are we dying, Belt?" whispered Roylance, and his voice sounded very strange.

"Yes; it can't be long. But I hope we shall go to sleep first and wake no more."

He staggered in at the open doorway, for the canvas had been drawn aside, and stood gazing down at the lieutenant, who feebly raised his hand.

Roylance remained there, leaning against the rough entrance, and on a case sat Pan, with his head resting against the wall and his eyes half-closed.

That grip of the hand was all that pa.s.sed, save a long, earnest look of the eyes, and an hour must have pa.s.sed over them in the almost insupportable heat. There was not a breath of air, and the poor fellows felt as if they were being literally scorched up, and that before long it would be impossible to breathe.

They had silently said good-bye, and Syd sat now on the floor with his hand in Mr Dallas's, thinking of his father, and of how he would come some time and find him lying there dead, and know by the work about that he had done his duty.

"And poor Uncle Tom," he said to himself. "How sorry he will be! I liked Uncle Tom."

Then there was a wave of delirium pa.s.sed over, in which as in a dream he saw sparkling waters and bright rivers dancing in the suns.h.i.+ne, and all was happiness and joy, till he started into wakefulness once more at a low groan from Roylance, who lay close beside him.

The hideous truth was there: they were all dying of thirst, and Syd's last thought seemed to be that he had forgotten to ask help from above till it was too late, and he could not form the words.

It was but a half delirious fancy, for he had prayed long and earnestly.

But the idea grew strong now, and he tried to repeat the Lord's prayer aloud.

No word came but to himself, and he went on sinking fast into unconsciousness till he came to "Give us this day--"

He started up, for something seemed to strike him, and he gazed wildly at the boy Pan, who had fallen from where he sat upon the box, and now struggled to his knees.

"Water!" he gasped--"so thirsty. Master Syd--water--water--I know where there's lots o' water--lots!"

He literally shrieked the words, and some one who had been leaning against the entrance stumbled in, electrified with strength as it were, as he shouted hoa.r.s.ely--

"Water, my boy, water; where?"

Pan gazed about him wildly in the delirium that had attacked him in turn, and did not seem to understand.

The straw of hope that had been held out faded away again, and a mist came back over Syd's eyes till he heard Strake's voice, as he shook his son, shouting--

"Water, d'yer hear, Pan? to save us all."

"Water," said the boy, hoa.r.s.ely; "water. Yes, I know," he yelled. "I used to get lots--down there."

"Where--where, boy?" cried the boatswain, wildly.

"Down--where--I hid--father," he whispered. "Big hole--cave in the rocks. Plenty--water--give--water."

He lurched over to the left, and lay insensible upon the floor.

If it was true! The last hope gone unless the boy could be revived sufficiently to guide them to the spot.

"He was mad," said the boatswain, slowly; and he looked wildly round with his bloodshot eyes.

But the boy's words had brought hope and a temporary strength to Syd, who pressed his head with his hands and tried to think.

"Would a bucket of sea-water revive him to make him tell us, Strake?" he croaked, more than spoke.

"No, no, no; good-bye. It's all a dream."

"It is not," cried Syd, wildly. "I know--the place. Heaven, give us strength. I know it now."

"You're mad, sir, mad," groaned the boatswain.

"No, Barney, do. Help, come. Water--I know--I can find it now."

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.