noon
My Newfoundland dog , Sneezer , had snatched at me , and dragged me out of the eddy of the sinking vessel . For life , dear life , nearly suffocated , amidst the hissing spray , we reached the cutter , the dog and his helpless master . * * * * * For three miserable days I had been exposed , half naked and bareheaded , in an open boat , without water , or food , or shade . The third fierce West Indian noon was long passed , and once more the dry , burning sun sank in the west , like a red hot shield of iron . I glared on the noble dog as he lay at the bottom of the boat , and would have torn at his throat with my teeth , not for food , but that I might drink his hot blood ; but as he turned his dull , gray , glazing eye on me , the pulses of my heart stopped , and I fell senseless . When my recollection returned , I was stretched on some fresh plantain leaves , in a low , smoky hut , with my faithful dog lying beside me , whining and licking my hands and face . Underneath the joists , that bound the rafters of the roof together , lay a corpse , wrapped in a boatsail , on which was clumsily written with charcoal , `` The body of John Deadeye , Esq. , late commander of his Britannic Majesty 's sloop Torch . ''