“Can’t go on forever,” he muttered; “must sleep soon—then I’ll be drowned or froze.” He didn’t care. His sodden clothes would take him straight down and he was too tired to fight. It would be all over in a minute, finished and done with. At home, at the Owls’ House now, Wany would be bringing the cows in. Bohenna would be coming down the hill from work, driving the plow oxen before him. There would be a grand fire on the hearth and the black pot bubbling. He could see Martha fussing about like an old hen, getting supper ready, bent double with rheumatism—and Eli, Eli . . . He wondered if the owls would hoot for him as they had for his father. He didn’t know why he’d kept the boat going; it was only prolonging the misery. Might as well let her broach and have done with it. Over with her—now! But his hand remained steadfast and the boat raced on. The west was barred with a yellow strip—sunset. Presently it would be night, and under cover of night Fate was waiting for him crouched like a footpad. * * * * * He did not see the vessel’s approach till she was upon him. She must have been in sight for some time, but he had been keeping his eyes ahead and did not look round till she hailed. She was right on him, coming up hand over fist. Ortho was so surprised he nearly jumped out of his clothes. He stood up in the stern sheets, goggling at her foolishly. Was it a mirage? Had he gone light-headed already? He heard the creak of her yards and blocks as she yawed to starboard, the hiss of her cut-water shearing into a sea, and then a guttural voice shouting unintelligibly. She was real enough and she was yawing to pick him up! A flood of joy went through him; he was going to live after all! Not for nothing had he kept the _Gamecock_ running. She was on top of him. The short bowsprit and gilded beak stabbed past; then came shouts, the roar of sundered water, a rope hurtling out of reach; a thump and over went the _Gamecock_, run down. Ortho gripped the gunnel, vaulted onto the boat side as it rolled under, and jumped. The vessel was wallowing deep in a trough at the time. He caught the fore-mast chains with both hands and hung trailing up to the knees in bubbling brine. Something bumped his knee. It was Anson; his leer seemed more pronounced than ever; then he went out of sight. Men in the channels gripped Ortho’s wrists and hoisted him clear. He lay where they threw him, panting and shivering, water dribbling from his clothes to the deck. Aft on the poop a couple of men, officers evidently, were staring at the _Gamecock_ drifting astern, bottom up. They did not consider her worth the trouble of going after. A negro gave Ortho a kick with his bare foot, handed him a bowl of hot gruel and a crust of bread. Ortho gulped these and then dragged himself to his feet, leaned against the main-jeers and took stock of his surroundings.