“Go on!”
“Boys, it’s Tommie Coulthurst.”
The awful silence that followed this crushing announcement lasted for full twenty seconds, a silence broken only by the slash of the bow wash, the creak of a block and the cry of the gulls.
Then George said: “Oh, Lord!”
“You ain’t mistaken?” asked Candon feebly. Hank did not even reply.
“But we’ve busted their ship,” said George, as if protesting against the enormity of the idea that had just put itself together in his brain, “and I nearly did for that gink with the guitar.”
“I know,” said Hank, “and I downed that other chap and hauled that Jew woman off you by the left leg—well, there we are. “What’s wrong with this cruise anyhow?”
“I dunno,” said George. “My head’s turned inside out. Down with you, Hank, and get her up—get her up, we’ve gotta try and explain. Down with you.”
Hank started aft on a run and vanished. A minute later a deck chair appeared at the hatch, followed by Hank. After Hank came a little hand holding a Lugger pistol, and then the head and body of Tommie Coulthurst.