realized that it was morning and that he was
unaccountably weak. Pulling himself up again with more care, he stared
around for an instant, then sank back against the thwart.

The Wanderer was nowhere to be seen. After another moment he pulled
himself up on the seat, in order to assure himself that he was not
dreaming. What his eyes had told him was a fact.

He was alone in that little boat, with not a sail or other sign of
man's presence anywhere within view. The surprise held him mute and
breathless at first, then he began to wonder how he came to be left in
such a plight.

His left arm felt stiff and sore. Looking down, he saw the blood had
dried on his left hand, while under that shoulder something smarted
with every movement.

It came to him then. The report, the numbness, the fleeting glimpse of
that savage face, and the gun barrel, were now accounted for.

"While I was mooning away about grandfather and home, that fellow shot
me. Lucky he didn't strike closer. But how did I get loose?"

Examination showed him the painter trailing idly in the water
alongside. He must have made that half hitch carelessly. During his
swoon it had worked loose.

His friends on board had doubtless had their attention too much taken
up by the blacks, to give heed to him. The whiffs of air had slowly
swept the schooner out of sight and he had lain senseless until
daylight.

"I am surely in a bad fix," he reflected. "Wounded--in an open
boat--without an oar, or a bite to eat or drink."

He had read enough of the perils of the sea to comprehend the terrible
possibilities of his situation, and at first his blood chilled and his
courage sank. Resolute as he was by nature, there was a deadly
difference between the loneliness of his present condition and the
solitude of his native mountains.

In the woods he was at home; he knew where to go to find people
there--but here! In his weakened condition tears started to his eyes.
But he soon dashed them away, and, rising, set about dressing his wound.

He removed his jacket and shirt, and bathed the wound with ocean water,
as he knew that salt was good to allay possible inflammation. The
bullet had grazed his side just under the shoulder, making a painful
though not a dangerous injury.

"Lucky it didn't lodge," he thought, as he tore up his handkerchief and
bound up the place by passing the bandage over his opposite shoulder.

A good deal of blood had flowed both down