"The clouds," said he, "are but vapors drawn from the sea by the
heat of the sun. These clouds are composed of fresh water, and so the
steam we are now raising from salt water will be fresh. We can't make
whisky, or brew beer, lads; but, thank Heaven, we can brew water; and it
is worth all other liquors ten times told."
A wild "Hurrah!" greeted these words. But every novel experiment seems
doomed to fail, or meet with some disaster. The water in the bottle had
been reduced too low by vaporism, and the bottle burst suddenly, with a
loud report. That report was followed by a piteous wail.
Hazel turned pale at this fatal blow. But recovering himself, he said,
"That is unfortunate; but it was a good servant while it lasted. Give me
the baler; and, Miss Rolleston, can you lend me a thimble?"
The tube of the life-preserver was held over the baler, and out trickled
a small quantity of pure water, two thimblefuls apiece. Even that, as it
passed over their swelling tongues and parched swallows was a heavenly
relief. But, alas, the supply was then exhausted.
Next day hunger seemed uppermost and the men gnawed and chewed their
tobacco-pouches. And two caps that had been dressed with the hair on were
divided for food.
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