Ossie was ill toward morning, but there
was nothing they could do for him except huddle closely about him. He
complained of intense pains in his chest and Steve had horrible visions
of pneumonia until Ossie, asked to locate the trouble more definitely,
laid a trembling hand on a portion of his anatomy and muttered "Here"
through chattering teeth.
"That's not your chest, you idiot," said Steve, vastly relieved. "That's
your stomach!"
"Is it?" returned the sufferer miserably. "Well, it hurts just the
same!"
But after an hour he felt considerably better and went off to sleep. By
that time it was early morning and they could see about them. The rain
had almost ceased, but the wind still blew hard and the surf was still
pounding. Once during the darkness the waves had, from the sound,
entirely covered the little beach. Now, however, they had receded and,
as the light grew, they saw that the _Adventurer_ lay, with regard to
the tide, about as they had last glimpsed her. But she had swung her
stern further around, in spite of the anchor Steve had dropped, and the
waves were breaking almost squarely across her. She was a pathetic
sight. Her side curtains were waving in ribands, the forward flag-pole
held nothing but one tiny rag of blue bunting and the tender, torn from
the chocks, was jammed between the stanchions ahead.
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