Instead of natural loathing, of every form of moral condemnation, she was staring at the submarine commander with breathless interest, with an eagerness that might flatter any man alive.
Grant had made his way down the lifeboat, holding to this one's shoulder, steadying himself by that one's arm, his face drawn with anxiety, but for all that a figure of hope, of conciliation.
"I say," he called out, "we haven't got any provisions in this boat, and we're—you know how far we are from land."
"Bad management," commented the German, his eyes slipping past Grant again to the face at the stern.
"Even if it is bad management, you're not going to abandon eighteen fellow-beings in an open boat in mid-Atlantic, not civilians, to die of starvation?"
That didn't seem to deserve an answer.
"Who's in charge of your boat?" was the curt demand.
Grant hesitated.
"I am," answered Van Zandt.
"Well, don't you know how to shove off when you're told to?"