Every effort of will was torture, yet he was called upon continually to
make efforts of will. He gave the black he had ridden a nip of trade-
gin. Viaburi, the house-boy, brought him corrosive sublimate and water,
and he took a thorough antiseptic wash. He dosed himself with
chlorodyne, took his own pulse, smoked a thermometer, and lay back on the
couch with a suppressed groan. It was mid-afternoon, and he had
completed his third round that day. He called the house-boy.
"Take um big fella look along _Jessie_," he commanded.
The boy carried the long telescope out on the veranda, and searched the
sea.
"One fella schooner long way little bit," he announced. "One fella
_Jessie_."
The white man gave a little gasp of delight.
"You make um _Jessie_, five sticks tobacco along you," he said.
There was silence for a time, during which he waited with eager
impatience.
"Maybe _Jessie_, maybe other fella schooner," came the faltering
admission.
The man wormed to the edge of the couch, and slipped off to the floor on
his knees. By means of a chair he drew himself to his feet. Still
clinging to the chair, supporting most of his weight on it, he shoved it
to the door and out upon the veranda. The sweat from the exertion
streamed down his face and showed through the undershirt across his
shoulders.
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