“Yes,” answered Cartoner, watching his hands, for there was a sort of exultation in Kosmaroff's voice, as if fate had offered him a chance which he never expected.
Cable came aft and stood beside Cartoner.
“I want to go to sea this tide,” he said. “Where is the other man?”
“The other man is Prince Martin Bukaty,” was the answer. “Help me to lift him on board.”
“Why can't he come on board himself?”
“Because he is dead,” answered Kosmaroff, with a break in his voice. And he lurched forward against the rail. Cartoner caught him by one arm and held him up.
“I am so weak!” he murmured, “so weak! I am famished!”
Cartoner lifted him bodily over the rail, and Cable received him, half fainting, in his arms. The next moment Cartoner was kneeling in the boat that rode alongside. He slowly raised Martin, and with an effort held him towards the captain, who was sitting astride on the rail. Thus they got him on board and carried him to the cabin. They passed through it to that which was grandly called the captain's state-room. They laid him on the locker which served for a bed, while Kosmaroff, supporting himself against the bulkhead, watched them in silence.
The captain glanced at Martin, and then, catching sight of Kosmaroff's face, he hurried to the cabin, to return in a minute with the inevitable decanter, yellow with age and rust.
“Here,” he said, “drink that. Eat a bit o' biscuit. You're done.”