“Isn't it dreadful, Mr. Percival? What a terrible experience it has been. Oh—and I am glad you came through safely, too. But—” as her eyes narrowed anxiously,-“you were hurt. Your hands?”
“I can't very well shake hands with you, Miss Clinton,” said he. “Scorched a little, that's all. You'd think it was serious, the way they're bandaged. One of the sailors fixed them up for me last night. I can't tell you how glad I am that you are all right. And your aunt? Is she—” He paused.
“Auntie is all right, Mr. Percival. She's in bed. Shock and exposure. We were out there all night. In one of the boats. Katherine,—” her voice shook a little,—“Katherine is gone. She leaped overboard. I—I saw her go. I shall never forget it,—never. Aunt Julia's maid. For, oh, so many years, Mr. Percival.” She spoke in sharp, broken sentences, as if breathless. “You must have been terribly burned. Your hair,—your eyes, how bloodshot they are.”
“Smoke,” he said succinctly. “Singed on this side only. Really nothing serious. I got off very lightly.”
“Some of the men were frightfully burned,” she said with a shudder. “I am trying to be a nurse. There are two men in my—in my—”
“I know,” he broke in hastily. “Don't talk about it, Miss Clinton. It's corking of you to take hold like this. Corking!”
“Tell me about yourself. Where were you when it happened?”'
“I hate to admit it, but I was having a bite to eat down in the galley. You see, they'd somehow forgotten to give me anything to eat,—in the excitement, of course,—and I had been so busy myself it didn't occur to me to be hungry till rather late in the day. I managed to get on deck but not until after the bombs had all gone off. My friend, Mr. Gray,—the Chief Engineer, you know,—was down in the engine-room. That's how I got my hands burned. Not badly, I assure you, but—well, they may be a little scarred. You may not know it, but Mr. Gray and I came from the same place. Baltimore. He belonged to a fine old family there—and he'd been very kind to me. Poor fellow! Penned in. They never had a chance down there. He was—well, he died a few minutes after he was dragged out here on the deck. His clothes were on fire. But let's not talk about it. Tell me, is there anything I can do to make you more comfort-able? Or your aunt? I'm what you might call officer of the deck at present. Mr. Mott—”
“You ought to be in bed, Mr. Percival,” she interrupted sharply. “Your face is burned, too,—you must be suffering terribly. Wait! Now don't tell me you are not. I know better. I've seen those other men who were burned. I—”
“It's nothing, I tell you,” he interrupted, almost roughly. “There are dozens of men worse off than I am, and are they in bed? Not much. This is no time to lie down, Miss Clinton, if you've got a leg to stand on. See that little chap over there with his head and hands covered with bandages,—and barely able to drag his feet after him? He's an American jockey. I don't know his name. He was blown twenty or thirty feet across the after-deck. Brought up at the bottom of a companion-way. He's nothing but cuts and bruises from head to foot. But he's around on his wobbly little pins today, just the same, trying to edge in on some sort of a job. Couldn't keep him in bed.”