On mid-deck a shadow was pirouetting madly. Suddenly it collapsed; and the boy saw it ended at the neck.
A dim figure lolled against an overturned gun. As the lad gazed, it pointed to a puddle beside it.
"That's me," it said with slow and solemn interest.
The boy trod on something in the smoke. A bloody wraith, spread-eagled upon the deck, raised tired eyes to his.
"That's all right, sir," came a whisper. "Don't make no odds. I got all I want."
A hand out of the mist clutched his ankle.
"Stop this racket," gasped a voice, querulous and tearful. "I ain't well." A stump flapped in his face.
A ghost, sitting up against the side close by, began to titter.
"Once I was mother's darling. Mightn't think it to see me now."
A shot, screeching past the boy's nose, took his breath away. He staggered back, and brought up against a gun-captain, his shoulders to the breech of the gun.