That was a good idea—­to sing!  He clasped his hands nonchalantly behind his head, and began the first thing that came to his mind: 

“Roses in the moonlight
  To-night all thine,
Pale in the shade—­”

But he did not finish.  For the wind’s voice was stronger, and the waves drowned the little tune, so lonely there in the midst of the empty water.  Kirk cried himself to sleep, after all.

He could not even tell when the night gave way to cold day-break, for the fog cloaked everything from the sun’s waking warmth.  It might have been a week or a month that he had drifted on in the Flying Dutchman—­it certainly seemed as long as a month.  But he had eaten only two biscuits and was not yet starved, so he knew that it could not be even so much as a week.  But he did not try to sing now.  He was too cold, and he was very thirsty.  He crouched under the tarpaulin, and presently he ate another hardtack biscuit.  He could not hear the lighthouse fog-signal at all, now, and the waves were much bigger under the boat.  They lifted her up, swung her motionless for a moment, and then let her slide giddily into the trough of another sea.  “Even if I reached a desert island,” Kirk thought mournfully, “I don’t know what I’d do.  People catch turkles and shoot at parrots and things, but they can see what they’re doing.”

The boat rolled on, and Kirk began to feel quite wretchedly sick, and thirstier than ever.  He lay flat under the tarpaulin and tried to count minutes.  Sixty, quite fast—­that was one minute.  Had he counted two minutes, now, or was it three?  Then he found himself counting on and on—­a hundred and fifty-one, a hundred and fifty-two.

“I wish I’d hurry up and die,” said poor Kirk out loud.

Then his darkness grew more dark, for he could no longer think straight.  There was nothing but long swirling waves of dizziness and a rushing sound.

“Phil,” Kirk tried to say.  “Mother.”

At about this time, Ken was standing in the government wireless station, a good many miles from Asquam.  He had besieged an astonished young operator early in the morning, and had implored him to call every ship at sea within reach.  Now, in the afternoon, he was back again, to find out whether any replies had come.

“No boat sighted,” all the hurrying steamers had replied.  “Fog down heavy.  Will keep look-out.”

Ken had really given up all hope, long before.  Yet—­could he ever give up hope, so long as life lasted?  Such strange things had happened—­Most of all, he could not let Phil give up.  Yet he knew that he could not keep on with this pace much longer—­no sleep, and virtually no food.  But then, if he gave up the search, if he left a single thing undone while there was still a chance, could he ever bear himself again?  He sat in a chair at the wireless station, looking dully at the jumping blue spark.

“Keep on with it, please,” he said.  “I’m going out in a boat again.”