Harcourt's gaze shifted and the trace of a smile crept into his colourless cheeks.
"Tell me, Solomon, do you know who killed that bally second mate?"
"I did, sir."
Hammer heard the words dully, but they did not pierce to his brain, nor would he have heeded them if they had done so. Harcourt's vitality was ebbing fast, and their hands came together for the last time.
"Well, old chap," and his voice was little more than a whisper, "no bally preaching, you know—but take care of yourself. And I wish you'd take me cut to sea for the last scene, if you don't mind. Beastly country to rot in, this. What's the time, John?"
"Four bells, sir, afternoon watch."
"Thanks very much."
Silence ensured, while Hammer's grey eyes fastened hungrily on the face of his friend, and Harcourt gazed up, still smiling faintly.
Then the blue eyes closed, but the hand that the American held still pressed his feebly. After a moment Harcourt looked up again, a tinge of colour in his cheeks, and spoke in his old voice.
"Don't forget—Jenson. Good luck, old chap!"