Other means to enhance his physical comfort chance afforded him; the
fleshpots were supplemented with a beverage, stronger and more welcome
than that which bubbled and trickled so musically at his feet. One day a
box was washed ashore; a message from the civilized centers to the field
of primitive man! On its cover were the words, "Via sailing vessel,
_Lord Nelson_" followed by the address. The convict pried the boards
apart and gave a shout. Rum!--and plenty of it!--bottle after bottle, in
an overcoat of straw, nestling lovingly one upon another. The man licked
his lips; knocked off a neck, drank deep, and then, stopping many times,
carried his treasure to his bower.

Day after day turned its page, merged into the past; sometimes,
perforce, he got up, and, not a pleasant thing to look at, staggered to
the beach with his club. There he would slay some crawling thing from
the sea, return with his prize to mingle eating with drinking, until
sated with both, he would fall back unconscious among the flowers. But
the prolonged indulgence began to have a marked effect on his store;
bottle after bottle was tossed off; the empty shells flung aside to the
daisies. At length the day came when only two bottles remained in the
case, one full pair, sole survivors of the lot. The man took them out,
set them up and regarded them; a sense of impending disaster, of
imminent tragedy, shivered through his dulled consciousness. He reached
for the bottles and fondled them, started to knock the head from one and
put it down. Resisting desire, he told himself he would have a look at
the beach; the ocean had generously cast one box of well-primed bottles
at his feet; perhaps it would repeat its hospitable action and make him
once more the recipient of its bounty. The thought buoyed him to the
shore; the sea lapped the sand with Lydian whispers, and there, beyond
the edge of the soft singing ripples, he saw something that made him rub
his dazed eyes.