"Yessir. On the books I am, sir."
"You mean you have no religion?"
Dunn blew hard into the bowl of his pipe and replaced the mouthpiece between his jagged teeth. "Not that sort quite, sir—but I'm all right, sir."
The padre moved a little bit nearer along the keel. The pinnace was certainly deep in the water now, but his mind was at ease and he did not feel the cold. "Listen, Dunn," he said; "I am going to pray—I want you to repeat what I say after me."
Dunn moved his hands from under his chin and took his pipe from his mouth. "Yessir," he said.
The padre paused a moment and looked at the long blue slope of a sea rising above his eyes. He wondered vaguely why he was not feeling sea-sick. "O God, Who made the sea and all that therein is, have mercy on us Thy servants called to-day to Thy judgment-seat. Pardon us the manifold sins we have committed, and lead us to a true repentance; and to us, who have in the past neglected Thee in our hearts, send light and strength that we may come without fear before Thy throne. Have pity, O Lord, upon those who are made widows and orphans this day. Grant to our country final victory and Thy peace. Amen."
The sun was behind clouds now, and the seas were washing occasionally along the sinking boat.
"You did not join me in the prayer, Dunn," he said. "Was it not within the scheme of your religion?"
Dunn put his pipe carefully back in his jumper and took a firmer grip of the keel. "Yes, sir," he said, "it was—but I don't whine when I'm down."
"Do you mean I was whining, Dunn?"