“What was the lady's name?”
“Lucy Dodd; and David Dodd is on the shirt.”
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” cried the captain.
“Didn't know it till last night.”
“Why it is twelve o'clock. They are burying him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lucy would never forgive me,” cried the captain. And to the purser's utter amazement he clapped on his cocked hat, and flew out of the cabin on the errand I have described.
He now returned to the cabin and looked: a glance was enough: there lay the kindly face that had been his friend man and boy.
He hid his own with his hands, and moaned. He cursed his own blindness and stupidity in not recognising that face among a thousand. In this he was unjust to himself. David had never looked himself till now.
He sent for the surgeon, and told him the whole sad story: and asked him what could be done. His poor cousin Lucy had more than once expressed her horror of interment at sea. “It is very hot,” said he; “but surely you must know some way of keeping him till we land in New Zealand: curse these flies; how they bite!”