He recovered his eggs, and crept round the shoulder of the rock. The
gale pounced on him like a tiger on its half-escaped prey. It beat him
flat, worried him, did its best to tear him off and fling him into the
sea. But--Heavens!--how sweet it was after the musty quiet of the
death-chamber below!
Inch by inch, he worked his way back in the teeth of it, and crawled
spent into his bee-hive. Then, ravenous with his exertions, he broke one
of his eggs into his tin dipper, and forthwith emptied it outside, and
the gale swept away the awful smell of it.
The next was as bad, and his hopes sank to nothing.
The third, however, was all right. He mixed it with some cognac and
whipped it up with a stick, and the growlers inside fought over it
contentedly.
He was almost afraid to try another. However, he could get more
to-morrow. So he broke the fourth, and found it also good, so whipped it
up with more cognac, and felt happier than he had done since he nibbled
his rabbit-bones.
As he lay that night, and the gale howled about him more furiously than
ever, his thoughts ran constantly on the dead man lying in the silent
darkness down below.
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