Idly he made his way back to the scene of the accident. The break in the bulwarks and rail had been temporarily mended, and a curious crowd was gathered about the hole torn in the side of the Sherman. Ned did not want to stay there.
He looked out into the mist. The wet particles clung to his face like tiny tears, and he had much ado to keep back his sobs as he thought of those who had so lately been with him.
“If only the fog would lift!” murmured Ned, as he turned away from the broken place with a shiver.
But the white curtain of vapor still swirled about the troopship, seemingly moved more by the mysterious ocean currents than by any wind. It was still a dead calm, and though the fog may have lifted over some parts of the ocean area that it had covered, in the vicinity of the transport it was still heavy and impenetrable.
“It seems to shut me in like a prison!” murmured Ned.
Night was coming on, and it seemed to settle down earlier than it needed to, caused by the murkiness of the air. The first call to the supper mess was sounded, but Ned did not respond. He had no appetite for food. There would be time enough later to eat, if he felt so disposed.
“Poor Chunky!” he mused. “I’d never poke fun at him again about his appetite if he were here now.”
Ned choked back a sob and turned to go toward the bow of the ship.
The deck along which he was then progressing was more deserted then than it had been for some time, for many of the soldiers were down below, eating. And as Ned made his way along he saw, coming toward him, a figure that caused him a start, it was so like that of Professor Snodgrass. But he knew in an instant who it was.
“Le cochon!” he murmured.