It was still broad flaming daylight, and the sun hung like a huge
blood-red target over the crimson sea.
"A what?" shrieked Bunk.
"A tiger! A blooming tiger!" I bellowed, pointing to the brute that
lay crouched on the forecastle hidden from the boat's crew.
"Drunk again, Tom? or is it sun-stroke this time?" sung out old Bunk,
standing up in the boat and lurching to the rocking of her.
"It's killed William!" I yelled.
When I said this the beast, attracted by the noise of voices over the
side, got up and looked over the bulwark rail at the men, and old Bunk
instantly saw it. He stared for a minute or two as though he had been
blasted by a stroke of lightning. The other three fellows then saw the
beast, and if there was any drink in their heads the fumes of it flew
out at that sight, and left them sober men. Their postures were full
of wild surprise and terror whilst they gazed. Old Bunk roared:
"Has he killed the boy, d'yer say?"
"He lies there dead," cried I, pointing. "He hasn't moved since I
first saw him."
"Has he been eating of him?"
"No!"
"We must go ashore for help," sung out Jack Stevens.
"For God's sake don't leave me up here!" I cried.
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