"But God save us!" murmured the young man. "Can't a man die these days without a yacht-full of anxious persons steaming up and clamping a light against his eyeball?"
"But can't we do something for you?" asked Varney. "That's what we are here for."
The young man lay still and thought a moment, which he appeared to do with some difficulty.
"To be frank," his voice came out of the dark, rather clearer now, "you can. Give me a match, will you?"
Varney laughed; he produced and handed over a little box of them. Lying flat on his back in the boat, the young man fished a cigarette out of his pocket, hurriedly, and stuck it between his lips. The next minute the spurt of a match cut the air. The two in the ship's boat caught a brief, flashing glimpse of him—thin white hands raised to thin white face.
"Something of a poseur, aren't you?" suggested Peter pleasantly.
"What's your rôle to-night?"
There followed a fractional pause.
"That of a vagrant student of manners and customs," answered the colorless voice. "Therefore, to imitate your frankness, you interest me greatly."
"Those who study manners," said Peter, "should learn them after a while. Why didn't you sing out, when you saw us hustling to get out a boat, and tell us not to bother, as you were only playing dead for the lark of the thing?"
"Singing, whether out or in, is an art at which I can claim small proficiency. But tell me the time, will you? I seem to have hocked my watch."