It was horrible to think of, and desperate as his own state was, he
thanked God heartily that he was not as that other.
Morning brought no slackening of the gale. It seemed to him, if
anything, to be waxing still more furious.
He had only two eggs left, and they might both be bad ones, but he would
not have ventured round the headland that day for all the eggs in
existence.
He broke one presently, in answer to a clamour inside him that would
brook no denial, and found it good, and lived on it that day, and mused
between times on the strange fact that a man could feel so mightily
grateful for the difference between a bad egg and a good one.
His sixth egg turned out a good one also, and the next day there came
another hopeful lull, which permitted him to harry the puffins once
more, and gave him a dozen chances against contingencies.
On the eighth day the storm blew itself out, and he looked hopefully
across at the lonely and weather-beaten cliffs of Sark for the relief
which he was certain they had been aching to send him.
The waves, however, still ran high, and, though he did not know it till
later, there was not a boat left afloat round the whole Island.
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