“Are we—going down?” he heard a thick, lifeless whisper.
“I think so,” said Lang, too flurried to realize the queerness of the colloquy. “You must get on deck. Here, lean on me. Can you stand?”
“Hold on,” said Rockett, in his thick mutter. “Got to—beat these pirates. Listen—you know—north of Persia——”
“Do you want to tell me where you’ve hidden the money? Be quick!” said Lang sharply.
“Wait. Six to—nine. Twelve o’clock. Remember—noon——”
A rush of feet outside, and Carroll plunged into the room. He stopped short with an astounded cry, as Lang had done.
“By God, he’s alive! He spoke. I heard him. What did he say?”
“Delirious. Raving,” Lang snapped. “Here, help me get him on deck.”
A sudden wild stampede of yelling men thundered across the deck overhead. There was no time for talk. Between them they gripped the big man around the body, and half dragged, half carried him across the cabin. He was enormously heavy, and seemed to sag back into paralysis again, so that it was with the utmost breathless straining that they got him up the stairs to the deck, where all hell seemed to have broken loose.
The other steamer, more distant now, had turned a searchlight on her victim, dimly illumining the Cavite’s decks, and began to sound her roaring siren again, as in desperate signaling. Lang’s first glance saw the black water. It seemed almost up to the level of his feet.