"It sounded like a woman. I say, you don't suppose the old man's up to any funny business with the ladies, do you? Shall we go down?"
Feet scuffled on the iron companion-ladder, but the second officer said: "Never mind. It might've been imagination. We'll—"
And then, to the horror of the little group by the glass enclosure, the captain's corpse sat up.
"!!!! 3 ^ 1 /2&£!?!?? 0???" roared Captain Whistler-weakly it is true, and huskily, but with gathering volume as his sticky wits ceased to whirl."!&£&/£/!" He gasped, he blinked, and then, as the full realisation smote him, he lifted shaking arms to heaven and set soaring his soul in one hoarse blast: "M!!&/£—!!?????&—&£/!!/?% 3 /4Vsll Thieves! Murderers! Help!"
"That's torn it," breathed Morgan, in a fierce whisper. "Quick! There's only one… What are you doing?" he demanded, and stared at Peggy Glenn.
After saying, "Eiee!" the girl did not hesitate. Just behind her there was the porthole to somebody's cabin, open and fastened back. As the obliging boat rolled over to assist her aim, she flung the steel box inside. It was a dark cabin, and they heard the box bump down. Without looking at the others, who were staring aghast, she had turned to run, when Morgan caught her arm…
"Gawd lummy!" said the ghostly voice from the top of the companionway, as though it were coming out of a trance, "that's the old man! Come on!"
Morgan was shooing his charges before him like chickens. He spoke so fast, under cover of the crashing swell, that he wondered if they heard him: "Don't try to run, you fatheads, or Whistler'll see you! He's still groggy… Stick in the shadow, make a lot of noise with your feet as though you'd heard him and were running to help! Say something! Talk! Run about in circles… "
It was an old detective-story trick, and he hoped it would work. Certainly their response was magnificent. To Captain Whistler, opening gummy eyes as he sat on the deck, it must have seemed that he was being rescued by a regiment of cavalry. The din was staggering especially Captain Valvick's realistic impersonation of a horse starting from far away and growing louder and more thunderous as it galloped near. Morgan's stout-hearted trio also cut the gale with such cries as, "What is it?" "What's wrong?" "Who's hurt?" They had timed themselves to spin round the forward bulkhead just as the second officer and the doctor came pelting up, their waterproofs swishing and the gilt ensigns on their caps gleaming out of the murk. There was silence while everybody clung to what was convenient, and several moments of hard breathing. The second officer, bending down, snapped on his flashlight. One good eye — undamaged, although the pickled-onion blaze of its pupil was distended horribly — one good eye smouldered and glared back at them out of a face which resembled a powerful piece of futurist painting. Captain Whistler was breathing hard. Morgan thought of the Cyclops, and also of incipient apoplexy. Captain Whistler sat on the wet deck, supporting himself with his hands behind him, and his cap was pushed back over his short white hair. He did not say anything. He was incapable, at that moment, of saying anything. He only breathed.
"Gor!" whispered the second officer.