After a time he no longer heard the throbbing of the engines or the movement of the ship during those moments when he lay passive in weakness, nor did the desire for freedom, for merely freedom's sake, any longer actuate him; instead, beneath him, in his pocket, he had felt the little case that held his hypodermic syringe, and it had brought the craving for the drug. And the craving grew. It grew until it became torture, and to satisfy it became the one incentive that possessed him. It tormented, it mocked him. He could feel it there in his pocket, always there in his pocket. Hell could not keep him from it. He blasphemed at the ropes that kept it from his fingers' reach, and he wrenched and tore at them, and sobbed and snarled--and after long minutes of maniacal struggle would again lie trembling, drained of the power either to move or think. It grew dark in the cabin. And now, in one of his series of struggles, something snapped beneath him--a cord! One of the cords around his wrists had given away. He tore one hand free. Yes, yes--he could reach his pocket! Ha, ha--his pocket! And now his other hand was free. He snatched at the hypodermic syringe with feverish greed--and the plunger went home as the needle pricked its way beneath the skin of his forearm. He reached up then, unloosened the knots at the back of his head, and spat the gag from his mouth. His penknife freed his legs. He stood up--tottered--and sat down on the edge of his bunk. He remained motionless for a few minutes. The drug steadied him. He looked around him. It was dark. The ship was very still; there was no sense of movement, none of vibration from the engines. It seemed to him that in a hazy, vague way he had noticed that fact a long time ago. But, nevertheless, it was very curious! He stood up again. This was better! He felt secure enough now on his feet. It was only as though a great fatigue were upon him, and that he seemed to be weighted down with lead--nothing more than that. He crossed to the window, drew the shade, and opened the window itself. And then, for a long time, puzzled, his brows drawn together, he stood there staring out. Close at hand, though but faintly outlined in the darkness, he could see the shore. And it was not imagination, for beyond the shore line, he could see innumerable little lights twinkling. It was strange! He rubbed his eyes. Here was something else! The window opened on a narrow, dimly lighted and deserted deck--one of the lower decks, he remembered. Below this deck, and evidently alongside of the steamer's hull, he could make out the upper-structure of some small vessel. A figure came along the deck now from the forward end--one of the crew, Crang could see from the other's dress, as the man drew nearer. Crang thrust his head out of the window. “I say, look here!” he called, as the other came opposite to him. “What's all this about? Where are we?”