The sun climbed high towards the zenith, and the tide came up higher, as Tom sat there alone on his desert island, looking out upon the sea. The boat from which he had hoped so much had proved false to those hopes, and all the labors of the previous day had proved useless. His attempt to escape had nearly resulted in his destruction. He had learned from that experiment that no efforts of his could now effect his rescue. He had done the very best he could, and it would not be possible for him, with his present resources, to contrive anything better than that which had so miserably failed. If he could only procure some tar, he might then stop up the interstices; but as it was, nothing of his construction would avail to keep back the treacherous entrance of the water. It seemed now to him that his stay on the island was destined to be prolonged to a much greater extent than he had first thought of, and there did not seem any longer a hope of saving himself by his own exertions. Alone on a desert island! It was a dreadful fact which now forced itself more and more upon Tom's mind, until at length he could think of nothing else. Hitherto he had fought off the idea whenever it presented itself, and so long as he had been able to indulge in any hope of freeing himself by his own exertions, he prevented himself from sinking into the gloom of utter despair. But now he could no longer save himself from that gloom, and the thought grew darker and drearier before him--the one fact of his present situation. Alone on a desert island! A very interesting thing to read about, no doubt; and Tom, like all boys, had revelled in the portrayals of such a situation which he had encountered in his reading. No one had entered with more zest than he into the pages of Robinson Crusoe, and no one had enjoyed more than he the talks which boys love to have about their possible doings under such circumstances. But now, to be here, and find himself in such a place,--to be brought face to face with the hard, stern, dismal fact,--was another thing altogether. What oppressed him most was not the hardships of his position. These he could have withstood if there had been nothing worse. The worst part of his present life was its solitude. If Bart had been here with him, or Bruce, or Arthur, or Phil, or Pat, how different it would have been! Even old Solomon would have enabled him to pass the time contentedly. But to be alone,--all alone,--without a soul to speak to,--that was terrible.