There was another silence. Without removing his gaze from that terrifying face, the second officer beckoned behind him to the doctor. "I — er—" he faltered; "that is, what happened, sir?"
A certain terrible spasm and shiver twitched over the captain's face and chest, as though a volcano were trembling at its crust. But he still said nothing, and continued to wheeze noisily. His Cyclopean eye remained fixed.
"Come on, sir!" urged the second officer. "Let me help you up. You'll — er — catch cold. What happened?" he demanded, bewilderedly, turning to Morgan. "We heard—"
"So did we," agreed Morgan, "and came running when you did. I don't know what happened to him. He must have fallen off the bridge or something."
Among the dusky figures Peggy pressed forward. "It is Captain Whistler!" she wailed. "Oh, the poor dear! This is awful! Whatever can have happened to him? I say—" She seemed to have a shocking presentiment. Although she lowered her voice, there was only a hissing recoil of waters on the rise, and her shocked whisper to Warren carried clearly. "I say, I hope the poor man hasn't been drinking, has he?"
"What's that Tattling on the deck?" demanded Warren, who was peering about him in the gloom. Following his glance, the uneasy second officer directed the beam of the flashlight down on the deck…
"I–I do believe it's a whisky-bottle," said Peggy, earnestly contemplating the object that rolled there. "And — er — it seems to be empty. Oh, poor man!"
Morgan looked at her over his misted spectacles. A fair-minded person, he was bound to consider that this was laying it on a bit thick. Besides, he was momentarily afraid that Captain Whistler might have an apoplectic stroke. There were even richer hues blooming in the Cyclopean-eyed face; there were gurglings and rattlings and mysterious internal combustions which apparently defied nature. The second officer coughed.
"Come along, sir," he urged, soothingly. "Let me help you up, now. Then the doctor can—"
Captain Whistler found his voice.