Now I could see her fore and main courses, and presently the black dot of
her hull, and at last the white curl at her forefoot, as she came pressing
gallantly on, just as though she knew my need and was speeding her best to
answer it.

While she was still far away, I raised myself as high as I could on my spar
and waved my rag of sail desperately. I tried to shout, but could not bring
out so much as a whisper. I waved and waved. She was coming--coming. She
was abreast of me, and showed no sign of having seen me. She was
passing--passing. I remember scrambling up onto the spar and
waving--waving--waving--

* * * * *

I came to myself in the comforting confinement of a bunk. I could touch
the side and the roof. They were real and solid. I rubbed my hand on them.
There was mighty comfort and assurance of safety in the very feel of them.

I lay between white sheets, and there was a pillow under my head. I tried
to raise my head to look about me, but it swam like oil in a pitching lamp,
and I was glad to drop it on the pillow again. The place was full of
creakings, a sound I knew right well.

A door opened. I turned my head on the pillow and saw a stout little man
looking at me with much interest.

"Ah ha!" he said, with a friendly nod. "That's all right. Come back at
last, have you? Narrow squeak you made of it. How long had you been on that
spar?"