CHAPTER XI.
_An Unfinished Game of Cards._ One evening, as I returned to the ship unusually worn-out and disheartened, I asked Tom how the stores were holding out.

He answered cheerfully that they would last another week, and leave us enough to get home.
"Well, shall we stick out the other week, or not, Tom?
I don't want to kill you, and I confess I'm nearly all in myself." "May as well stick it out, sar, now we've gone so far.

Then we'll have done all we can, and there's a certain satisfaction in doing that, sar." Good old Tom! and I believe that the wise old man had the thought behind, that, perhaps, when there was evidently nothing more to be done, I might get rid of the bee in my bonnet, and once more settle down to the business of a reasonable being.
So next morning we went at it again; and the next, and the next again, and then on the fourth day, when our week was drawing to its close, something at last happened to change the grim monotony of our days.
It was shortly after the lunch hour.

Tom and I, who were now working too far apart to hear each other's halloes, had fired our revolvers once or twice to show that all was right with us.

But, for no reason I can give, I suddenly got a feeling that all was not right with the old man, so I fired my revolver, and gave him time for a reply.