To Mr. Gibney this was an infallible sign that McGuffey was now
delirious. In the shadow of a neighbouring bush Captain Scraggs
babbled of steam beer in the Bowhead saloon, and the commodore,
stifling his own agony, watched his comrades until their lips and
tongues, parched with thirst, refused longer to produce even a
moan, and silence settled over the dismal camp.

It was the finish. The commodore knew it, and sat with bowed head
in his gaunt arms, wondering, wondering. Slowly his body began to
sway; he muttered something, slid forward on his face, and lay
still. And as he lay there on the threshold of the unknown he
dreamed that the _Maggie II_ came into view around the headland,
a bone in her teeth and every stitch of canvas flying. He saw her
luff up into the wind and hang there shivering; a moment later
her sails came down by the run, and he saw a little splash under
her port bow as her hook took bottom. There was a commotion on
decks, and then to Mr. Gibney's dying ears came faintly the
shouts and songs of the black boys as a whaleboat shot into the
breakers and pulled swiftly toward the beach. Mr. Gibney dreamed
that a white man sat in the stern sheets of this whaleboat, and
as the boat touched the beach it seemed to Mr. Gibney that this
man sprang ashore and ran swiftly toward him. And--Mr. Gibney
twisted his suffering lips into a wry smile as he realized the
oddities of this mirage--it seemed to him that this visionary
white man bore a striking resemblance to Neils Halvorsen. Neils
Halvorsen, of all men! Old Neils, "the squarehead" deckhand of
the green-pea trade! Dull, bowlegged Neils, with his lost dog
smile and his----