CHAPTER 21A POOR DEVIL—
When Barry Litton awakened the next morning he stared at the ceiling, then sat up in his blankets. Automatically, a figure sat up in a bed in the opposite corner of the shed. It was Tom Willow, blind with sleep.
“Lie down again, Tom,” said Litton.
“Thanks, chief,” said the sailor, and dropping back, he was instantly snoring once more.
At the pump, beside the corral, Litton bathed his face and shaved. It made little difference to him, the amount of time that he spent in bed. Like a camel able to go without water, so he with repose; the strength that was stored in him could be drawn out as from a tap, in the time of need.
As he shaved, he looked at the Dead Man Steer, contentedly lying there in the first light of the morning sun, the horrible brand on its flank s
