Captain Westfield ate heartily of the delicious fish. Much to his delight, he found that, except for the extreme weakness following his heat prostration, he felt unusually well. He wisely decided not to invite a relapse by getting up at once, and, as soon as he had finished eating, he lay back upon his couch and quietly fell asleep again. It was midday when he awoke feeling much better and stronger. The first thing that met his gaze as he gained a sitting position was Chris lying in the same position in which he had first flung himself. He called to him several times but the little negro lay still and motionless. Thoroughly alarmed, he crawled over and surveyed the unconscious lad. The sight of the enormously swollen leg and a few minutes' fingering of the dark little wrist told him what was the matter. The slow pulse beats showed that the subtile poison, released from its confinement by the removal of the bandage, had found its way to the plucky, loyal, little heart.

The captain sat down by the little fellow's side and dashed the stinging tears from his eyes.

"He's killed himself for me," he moaned. "If he had laid still just as he was he would have been all right. But, God bless him, he risked his life for a poor, old, worthless hulk like me. An' thar ain't nothing I can do to save him now."

Although he had but small faith that it would do any good in such a desperate case, he hastily crushed out a cupful of juice from the palmetto berries and forced it down Chris' throat, then, resuming his seat by his side, he watched to see if the powerful stimulant would have any effect.

As the hours dragged slowly away he rejoiced to see that the lad's condition apparently grew no worse. Encouraged, he crushed out more of the juice and administered it at regular intervals. "I believe he's got a good fighting chance to pull through. If the boys would only get back with some whiskey an' drugs, now, I reckon, we could save him. I wonder what can be keepin' them so long. They've had plenty of time to make Judson and back."

But the afternoon wore away without sign of the rescuers, and a new fear crept into the old sailor's worries. Something must have happened to the two boys. Late in the afternoon, he left Chris long enough to hurry down to the shore in quest of fish or clams for supper. He found the rock from which he had fished completely submerged and a heavy surf thundering far up into the marsh. Under such conditions it was impossible to secure fish or clams, and he returned to camp hungry, disappointed, and with further cause for worry. The heavy surf indicated another storm in the Gulf which might reach where they were. If it did, it would render their position still more uncomfortable and dangerous. A heavy blow would continue to cut off their supply of fish and clams and would likely flood the low-lying marsh shutting them in on their little island. If Chris had been well enough to walk, the captain would have at once moved camp to the mainland, but that was impossible now. By sunset his fears were in a fair way to be realized. The wind was steadily increasing in force, and, blowing out of a clear sky, gave promise of still greater violence. Supperless and worried, the old sailor watched the night fall with but one thing to cheer his drooping spirits—Chris was evidently slowly improving. Likely much of the poison had been drawn out from his wound by the hot mud and the balance remaining had been overcome in its paralyzing effects by the powerful stimulant. The lad's pulse was slowly growing stronger and it was clear that the crisis had been safely passed.

The old sailor was too worried about the absent lads to compose himself to sleep. Already, the surf was sending up small wavelets far into the marsh. If the boys were returning the way they went, their journey would be fraught with perils.

The sky was covered with fleecy clouds but they disappeared with the rising of the moon and by its bright light he could see far out on the water where the huge waves broke foaming white on the outer bar.

Suddenly he gave a shout that made Chris stir in his stupor; "The boys! The boys!" he cried in delight.

In the broad path of moonlight, a small schooner appeared feeling her way through a passage in the reef under close-reefed sails.

"They must have someone aboard that knows the reef," he mused as he watched the little ship cautiously weaving her way in between the dangerous rocks.

She held steadily for the shore until she was scarce two cable lengths from it, then, she shot up into the wind, her anchor was dropped, and her sails lowered.

The captain was down on the shore, heedless of the flying spray, when the anchor hit the bottom.

"Walt! Charley!" he roared at the top of his voice.

There was no answer and he hailed again.

"Ahoy! Shore!" came an answering hail from the schooner. "Who air yo' and what do yo' want?"

The captain was silent for a moment with disappointment. It was not the boys after all, but any help was welcome at such a time and he made haste to reply.

"We're two shipwrecks in bad shape an' need help. Who are you?"

"The Hattie Roberts, sponger, from Key West. Stan' by, an' we'll send a boat."

While the strangers were launching a boat, the captain had time to observe that the schooner's decks were piled full of small boats and that, small as she was, she carried a crew of at least thirty men.

"An old style, pole an' hook sponger," he decided. "I didn't reckon there was any of them left. I 'lowed the Greeks had run 'em all out of business."

Manned by half a dozen men, the little boat came tearing through the waves towards the shore. Flung up by a huge roller, she grounded almost at the captain's feet. The instant she touched bottom, her crew sprang over the side and drew her up safely beyond the reach of the next roller. Even by the dimmed light of the moon, the old sailor could see that the new-comers were dark-skinned men with heavy coarse features. He recognized them without the aid of the peculiar accent as Conchs,—a kind of mixed race belonging to the Florida Keys.

"Whar's yo's companion?" demanded one, who from his air of authority was evidently the captain.

"He's on a little island just a little ways from here. I'll have to get one of your men to help me down with him."

"All right, Sam here will go with yo'. Step lively, we have got to pull out from hyar quick. There ain't as good anchorage as I 'lowed to find behind the reef. We'll have to make foah a better harbor."

The captain, with the sailor detailed to help him, was hurrying off on their mission when the Conch's skippers curiosity caused him to stop him in spite of the preciousness of time.

"How did yo's git hyah in such a fix," he demanded.

"Been sponging with a Greek crew. Crew mutinied. We escaped in a diving boat. Got wrecked in the night on the reef out thar," replied Captain Westfield, briefly.

"Sponging with the Greeks!" snarled the Conch with an oath. "Then the Greeks can help yo' out of yo'r fix, by all that's Holy, I won't. Hyah, Sam, jump aboard with yo'."

"You are not agoin' to desert us?" cried the captain in bewildered consternation. "For the love of humanity, man, what do you mean?"

"I mean that I won't raise a finger to help any mons who deals with the Greeks—blast 'em," cried the Conch, fiercely. "They've ruined us an' our people. We used to be a happy an' prosperous race a'fore they came with their diving suits an' tramped all over the bottom of the Gulf. Killing the little baby sponges with their iron shoes, an' stripping the bottom clean as a Conch's floor. We've been run out of the business, an' they did it. We've lost our homes, an' they caused it. Our families don't have enough to eat an' wear any more, an' they are the reason—curse 'em, curse 'em, curse 'em."

"But you are leaving us to certain death, man!" pleaded Captain Westfield, "The water is rising over the marsh, already."

"An' it will be flooded inside of ten hours," declared the Conch with cruel satisfaction. "All aboard mons an' shove off."

Captain Westfield grasped the gunwale of the boat and tried to hold it while he reasoned and argued with the fanatical Conch, but the infuriated man rapped his knuckles with an oar and gave him a shove with the blade that sent him struggling backwards. By the time the old sailor recovered his balance, the boat had been shoved off and was out of his reach. He shook his clenched fist at the Conch's receding figure.

"You'll pay for this," he shouted. "No good will come to you after such a trick." But it is doubtful if the Conch even heard his voice above the roar of the wind.

The captain stood watching grimly until the boat reached the schooner's side, and her close-reefed sails were hoisted, her anchor broke and she headed to the South inside the line of reef. When she had faded away into the night, he turned back for the camp filled with disappointment and dismay.