“The dicky-bird!” His dried lips tried to laugh.  “Ef it ain’t the dicky-bird!” The bird looked at him.  “Ef that doesn’t beat—­” but he could not think what it “beat.”  The bird cocked its head.  “Ain’t ye afeard o’ me?” It gave a feeble chirp.  “Well, I’m damned!” said the man, and after this mild expression of his feelings, forgot to curse again.  He even began to eye the island with a vague questioning wonder, as if asking himself what means might be thought of that would enable him to reach it; but the problem seemed to be beyond solution.  The wreckage, like a great lump, lay supinely on the surface of the water; he could not hope to move it.

The day slowly passed; the sun dried his clothes; once or twice the bird made a sound—­a plaintive little tone—­and involuntarily the man moved with care, thinking not to frighten it.  But caution in that regard seemed unnecessary, for the bird appeared very tame and not at all averse to company.

Toward noon the man began to suffer more acutely from thirst, and drawing out a sailors’ oilskin pouch, one of the few possessions he had been allowed by the police to retain, he took from it a piece of tobacco which he began to chew.  At the same time he eyed the rest of the contents—­half a ship’s biscuit, some matches and a mariner’s thimble.  The biscuit he broke, and threw a few crumbs, where the timbers were dry, near the bird.  For a long time it looked at the tiny white morsels; but finally, conquering shyness, hopped from its perch and tentatively approached the banquet.  Hours went by; the man chewed; the bird pecked.

That night it rained in real, tropical earnest, and he made a water vessel of his shoe, drank many times, ate a few mouthfuls of biscuit, and then placed the filled receptacle where he had thrown the crumbs.  As he did so he found himself wondering if the dawn would reveal his little feathered shipmate or whether it had been swept away by the violence of the rain.  The early shafts of day showed him the bird on its perch; it had apparently found shelter from the heavy down-pour beneath some out-jutting timber and seemed no worse for the experience.  The man’s second glance was in the direction of the island; what he saw brought a sudden exclamation to his lips.  The land certainly seemed much nearer; some current was sweeping them toward it slowly, but irresistibly.  The ’Frisco Pet swore joyfully; his eyes shone.  “I may do him yet!” he muttered.  The bird chirped; he looked at it.  “Breakfast, eh?” he said and tossed a few more crumbs near the shoe.

The second day on the floating bow, he brooded a great deal; the sharper pangs of hunger assailed him; he grew desperately impatient, the distance to the island decreased so gradually.  A breeze from the coveted shore fanned his cheek; he fancied it held them back, and fulminated against it,—­the beneficent current,—­the providential timbers!  A feeling of blind helplessness followed; the sun, beating down fiercely, made him light-headed.  Hardly knowing what he did, he drew forth the last little bit of the biscuit, ground it between his teeth and greedily swallowed it.  The act seemed to sober him; he raised his big hand to his brow and looked at “Dearie”; through the confusion of his thoughts he felt he had done some despicable thing.