Towards the close of the second
day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right.
With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near,
beheld--blessed sight!--a stream of water glancing in the beams of the
setting sun.
Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give
utterance to the voice. It mattered not. Exerting all his remaining
strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged
headforemost into the stream.
The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt
as brine!
The poor youth's cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing.
Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of
lethargic torpor, from which, he awakened next morning in a raging
fever. Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The
sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on
the arid plain. What mattered it to Dick? He was far away in the shady
groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more
frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe in the bright
blue lake.
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