The cold fingers grew stiff; the eyes closed.
Kit laid a hand on the old man's forehead, and stroked his hair.
"I'm a-coomin," came a tiny chuckle as of a sleepy child—"Billy's coomin."
Seaward something flapped.
The boy turned.
At first he thought the Angel of Death was hovering over the white waters on sable wings.
Then he recognised what he saw for the flag on the splintered mizzen of the Tremendous saluting solemnly the dying seaman.
Old Ding-dong saw it too.
He raised his head. The moonlight was on his face, and the hand in
Kit's quivered.
"Them's my colours," he whispered. "I never struck em."