No, it was
better as it had turned out. He'd squared himself for the beast
he'd been to her, and he'd squared himself with Mallory, too.
At least they'd have only decent thoughts of him, dead; but
alive, that would be an entirely different thing. He would be in
the way. He would be a constant embarrassment to them all,
for they would feel that they'd have to be nice to him in
return for what he had done for them. The thought made the
mucker sick.
"I'd rather croak," he murmured.
But he didn't "croak"--instead, he waxed stronger, and
toward evening the pangs of hunger and thirst drove him to
consider means for escaping from his hiding place, and searching
for food and water.
He waited until after dark, and then he crawled, with
utmost difficulty, from the deep pit. He had heard nothing of
the natives since the night before, and now, in the open, there
came to him but the faint sounds of the village life across the
clearing.
Byrne dragged himself toward the trail that led to the
spring where poor Theriere had died. It took him a long time
to reach it, but at last he was successful. The clear, cold water
helped to revive and strengthen him. Then he sought food.
Some wild fruit partially satisfied him for the moment, and he
commenced the laborious task of retracing his steps toward
"Manhattan Island.
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