But the despair of one inspired the other with fresh strength and courage, and we struggled forward, slower and slower.  It was soul-destroying work.  I believe that in the last hour we made not more than half a mile.  I know now that for the greater part of the time we were merely retracing our steps in a vicious circle!

It was well that it ended when it did, for we could not have held out much longer.  Harry was leading the way, for I had found that that slight responsibility fortified him.  We no longer walked, we barely went forward, staggering and reeling like drunken men.

Suddenly Harry stopped short, so suddenly that I ran against him; and at the same time I felt a queer sensation—­for I was too far gone to recognize it—­about my feet.

Then Harry stooped over quickly, half knocking me down as he did so, and dropped to his knees; and the next instant gave an unsteady cry of joy: 

“Water!  Man, it’s water!”

How we drank and wallowed, and wallowed and drank!  That water might have contained all the poisons in the world and we would have neither known nor cared.  But it was cool, fresh, living—­and it saved our lives.

We bathed our wounds and bandaged them with strips from our shirts.  Then we arranged our clothing for cushions and pillows as well as possible, took another drink, and lay down to sleep.

We must have slept a great many hours.  There was no way to judge of time, but when we awoke our joints were as stiff as though they had gotten rusty with the years.  I was brought to consciousness by the sound of Harry’s voice calling my name.

Somehow—­for every movement was exquisite pain—­we got to our feet and reached the water, having first removed our clothing.  But we were now at that point where to drink merely aggravated our hunger.  Harry was in a savage humor, and when I laughed at him he became furious.

“Have some sense.  I tell you, I must eat!  If it were not for your—­”

“Go easy, Hal.  Don’t say anything you’ll be sorry for.  And I refuse to consider the sordid topic of food as one that may rightfully contain the elements of tragedy.  We seem to be in the position of the king of vaudeville.  If we had some ham we’d have some ham and eggs—­if we had some eggs.”

“You may joke, but I am not made of iron!” he cried.

“And what can we do but die?” I demanded.  “Do you think there is any chance of our getting out of this?  Take it like a man.  Is it right for a man who has laughed at the world to begin to whine when it becomes necessary to leave it?

“You know I’m with you; I’ll fight, and what I find I’ll take; in the mean time I prefer not to furnish amusement for the devil.  There comes a time, I believe, when the stomach debases us against our wills.  May I die before I see it.”

“But what are we to do?”

“That’s more like it.  There’s only one hope.  We must smell out the pantry that holds the dried fish.”