Channing knew he was on a boat because it lifted and sank with him,
and he could hear the rush of her engines. When he opened his eyes he
was in the wheel-house of the Three Friends, and her captain was at
the wheel, smiling down at him. Channing raised himself on his elbow.
"The despatch-rider?" he asked.
"That's all right," said the captain, soothingly. "Don't you worry.
He come along same time you fell, and brought you out to us. What
ailed you--sunstroke?"
Channing sat up. "I guess so," he said.
When the Three Friends reached Port Antonio, Channing sought out the
pile of coffee-bags on which he slept at night and dropped upon them.
Before this he had been careful to avoid the place in the daytime, so
that no one might guess that it was there that he slept at night, but
this day he felt that if he should drop in the gutter he would not
care whether anyone saw him there or not. His limbs were hot and
heavy and refused to support him, his bones burned like quicklime.
The next morning, with the fever still upon him, he hurried
restlessly between the wharves and the cable-office, seeking for
news. There was much of it; it was great and trying news, the
situation outside of Santiago was grim and critical.
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