"Bit cold, Jim, ain't it? How're you feeling?" asked Jack, observing the pinched features and chattering teeth with inward concern.
"I'm all r-r-r-right! Go-go-goin' strong."
"More'n that riotin' albatross is," remarked Broncho, pointing to the dead bird, which still floated close to the rover. "He ain't stuck his head out of water since Jack downed him."
"He's d-d-d-dead, isn't he?"
"I ain't right certain he ain't foxin'," returned the cowpuncher. "Give him a poke with your bowie, Jack, an' see if you can't rouse him some."
"Not I," objected Jack. "Let sleeping dogs lie."
And so time passed as, slowly, very slowly, the whaler drifted nearer.
The sea was bitterly cold, and occasionally a breaker knocked the breath out of them, but no one of the three showed any signs of weakening.
Hovering round them were several albatrosses, besides black-hens and molly-mawks, all squawking loudly, and evidently trying to summon up sufficient courage to attack the dauntless trio.
"Them birds is shore organisin' for war," observed Broncho, as he watched them. "They're beginnin' to whoop an' beat their tomtoms a whole lot. I've a theery that six-shooters would be good argyments with them feathered sports. I regrets most sincere our havin' to leave our weepons on the Higgins that-away, Jack; I just loathes hittin' a new trail without packin' a gun along."