st clear. When
dawn broke I looked out, but no land was in sight, nor was a sail to be
seen. I was without food or water, but I hoped to be able to endure
hunger and thirst for some hours without suffering materially.

The day went on, the hot summer's sun beat down upon my head, and dried
my clothes. Several sail passed in the distance, but none came near me.
There was nothing in the boat with which I could form even a paddle. I
looked round again and again, thinking it possible that I might find
some spar which might serve cut in two as a mast and yard. I would
then, I thought, try to steer this boat to land, with the help of one of
the thwarts, which I would wrench out to make a rudder, using my clothes
tacked together as a sail.

Such ideas served to amuse my mind, but no spar could I see. Another
night came on, and, overcome by hunger, thirst, and weariness, I lay
down in the bottom of the boat to sleep. At length I awoke. Some time
must have passed since I lay down. I felt so low, that I scarcely
expected to live through another day should I not be picked up. I
looked about anxiously to ascertain if any sail was near; none was
visible, and I once more sank back in a state of stupor. I knew nothing
more until I found myself in the fore peak of a small vessel, a man
sitting by the side of the bunk in which I lay feeding me with broth.
In a few hours I had recovered sufficiently to speak. I asked the
seaman who had been attending me, what vessel I was on board.

"The _Fidelity_, collier, bound round from Newcastle to Plymouth," he
answered. "We picked you up at daybreak. The captain and mate thought
you were gone, but I saw there was life in you, and got you placed in my
bunk. You'll do well now, I hope."

I replied that I already felt much better, thanks to his kind care, and
asked his name.

"Ned Bath," he answered. "I've only done to you what I'd have expected
another to do for me, so don't talk about it."

He then inquired my name. I told him, giving him an outline of my
history, how I had been carried off from my wife, and how cruelly I had
been disappointed in my efforts to get back to her.

"You shan't be this time if I can help it, Will," he said, "and as soon
as we get into Plymouth, I'll help you to start off for Portsmouth.
I've got some wages due, and you shall have what money you want, and pay
me back when you can."

I thanked him heartily, feeling sure that Uncle Kelson would a