“Have you seen the barometer?” Captain Oleson asked, pausing at the bottom of the steps on his way to oversee the disembarkation of the sick.

“No,” Sheldon answered.  “Is it down?”

“It’s going down.”

“Then you’d better sleep aboard to-night,” was Sheldon’s judgment.  “Never mind the funeral.  I’ll see to poor Hughie.”

“A nigger was kicking the bucket when I dropped anchor.”

The captain made the statement as a simple fact, but obviously waited for a suggestion.  The other felt a sudden wave of irritation rush through him.

“Dump him over,” he cried.  “Great God, man! don’t you think I’ve got enough graves ashore?”

“I just wanted to know, that was all,” the captain answered, in no wise offended.

Sheldon regretted his childishness.

“Oh, Captain Oleson,” he called.  “If you can see your way to it, come ashore to-morrow and lend me a hand.  If you can’t, send the mate.”

“Right O. I’ll come myself.  Mr. Johnson’s dead, sir.  I forgot to tell you—­three days ago.”

Sheldon watched the Jessie’s captain go down the path, with waving arms and loud curses calling upon God to sink the Solomons.  Next, Sheldon noted the Jessie rolling lazily on the glassy swell, and beyond, in the north-west, high over Florida Island, an alpine chain of dark-massed clouds.  Then he turned to his partner, calling for boys to carry him into the house.  But Hughie Drummond had reached the end.  His breathing was imperceptible.  By mere touch, Sheldon could ascertain that the dying man’s temperature was going down.  It must have been going down when the thermometer registered one hundred and seven.  He had burned out.  Sheldon knelt beside him, the house-boys grouped around, their white singlets and loin-cloths peculiarly at variance with their dark skins and savage countenances, their huge ear-plugs and carved and glistening nose-rings.  Sheldon tottered to his feet at last, and half-fell into the steamer-chair.  Oppressive as the heat had been, it was now even more oppressive.  It was difficult to breathe.  He panted for air.  The faces and naked arms of the house-boys were beaded with sweat.

“Marster,” one of them ventured, “big fella wind he come, strong fella too much.”

Sheldon nodded his head but did not look.  Much as he had loved Hughie Drummond, his death, and the funeral it entailed, seemed an intolerable burden to add to what he was already sinking under.  He had a feeling—­nay, it was a certitude—­that all he had to do was to shut his eyes and let go, and that he would die, sink into immensity of rest.  He knew it; it was very simple.  All he had to do was close his eyes and let go; for he had reached the stage where he lived by will alone.  His weary body seemed torn by the oncoming pangs of dissolution.  He was a fool to hang on.  He had died a score of deaths already, and what was the use of prolonging it to two-score deaths before he really died.  Not only was he not afraid to die, but he desired to die.  His weary flesh and weary spirit desired it, and why should the flame of him not go utterly out?