“Learning to like what I do already, hey?” guffawed the captain, and he called on Chris to drain another cup with him to the lady of his choice.

I have believed since that dragging, interminable time which I now lived through, that complete despair, where you rest quite finally on bedrock and have nothing to dread in the way of further tumbles, must be a much happier state than the dreadful one of oscillating between hope and fear.  For a leaden-footed eternity, it seemed to me, I oscillated, longing for, yet dreading, the signs that Cookie’s powerful dope had begun to work upon our guards—­for might not the first symptoms be quite different from the anticipated blind staggers?  Fancy a murderous maniac pair reeling about the clearing, with death-vomiting revolvers and gleaming knives!

And then suddenly time, which had dragged so slowly, appeared to gallop, and the morning to be fleeing past, so that every wave that broke upon the beach was the footfalls of the returning pirates.  Long, long before that thirsty, garrulous pair grew still and torpid their companions must return—­

And I saw Cookie, his stratagem discovered, dangling from a convenient tree.

Gradually the rough disjointed talk of the sailors began to languish.  Covertly watching, I saw that Chris’s head had begun to droop.  His body, propped comfortably against a tree, sagged a little.  The hand that held the cup was lifted, stretched out in the direction of the enticing jar, then forgetting its errand fell heavily.  After a few spasmodic twitchings of the eyelids and uneasy grunts, Chris slumbered.

Captain Magnus was of tougher fiber.  But he, too, grew silent and there was a certain meal-sack limpness about his attitude.  His dulled eyes stared dreamily.  All at once with a jerk he roused himself, turned over, and administered to the sleeping Chris a prod with his large boot.

“Hey, there, wake up!  What right you got to be asleep at the switch?” But Chris only breathed more heavily.

Captain Magnus himself heaved a tremendous yawn, settled back in greater comfort against his sustaining tree, and closed his eyes.  I waited, counting the seconds by the beating of the blood in my ears.  In the background Cookie hovered apprehensively.  Plainly he would go on hovering unless loud snores from the pirates gave him assurance.  For myself, I sat fingering my penknife, wondering whether I ought to rush over and plunge it into the sleepers’ throats.  This would be heroic and practical, but unpleasant.  If, on the other hand, I merely tried to free the prisoners and Captain Magnus woke, what then?  The palm where they were tied was a dozen yards from me, much nearer to the guards, and within range of even their most languid glance.  Beyond the prisoners was Miss Browne, glaring uncomprehendingly over the edge of her book.  There was no help in Miss Browne.

I left my seat and stole on feet which seemed to stir every leaf and twig to loud complaint toward the captive pair.  Tense, motionless, with burning eyes, they waited.  There was a movement from Captain Magnus; he yawned, turned and muttered.  I stood stricken, my heart beating with loud thumps against my ribs.  But the captain’s eyes remained closed.