Nothing in this wide world moves sailors like a cry to them for
water. In an instant the three men had dragged me into the boat,
and were straining like horses at their oars, as they sent the boat
flashing through the rippling water. We dashed alongside.
"He's dying of thirst!" was the cry.
I was bundled on deck; the captain ran below, and returned with a
small draught of wine and water.
"Start with that," said he. "You'll be fitter for a longer pull
later on."
The drink gave me back my voice; yet for a while I could scarce
speak, for the tears that swelled my heart.
"Are there any more of ye?" said the captain.
I answered, "No."
"But what land's this?" he inquired.
"An island uphove by an earthquake," said I.
"Great thunder!" he cried. "And what's that arrangement in shells
and weeds atop of it?"
"A vessel that's probably been three hundred years at the bottom,"
I answered.
"The quake rose it, hey?"
"Just as it is," said I.
"Well, boil me," cried the worthy fellow, "if it don't seem too good
to be true! Mr. Fletcher, trim sail, sir. Best shove along--shove
along. Come, sir, step below with me for a rest and a bite, and
give me your tale.
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