The German was resting easily to-day but proved as glum and uncommunicative as ever. That did not worry the captain, who gave the man a cigarette and, when it was nonchalantly accepted, lighted his own pipe. Together they sat in silence and smoked, the German occupying an easy chair and resting his leg upon a stool, for he had refused to lie in a berth. Through the open window the dull boom of artillery could constantly be heard. After an hour or so:
"A long fight," remarked the captain in German.
The other merely looked at him, contemplatively. Carg stared for five minutes at the bandaged foot. Finally:
"Hard luck," said he.
This time the German nodded, looking at the foot also.
"In America," resumed the captain, puffing slowly, "they make fine artificial feet. Walk all right. Look natural."
"Vienna," said the German.
"Yes, I suppose so." Another pause.
"Name?" asked the German, with startling abruptness. But the other never winked.
"Carg. I'm a sailor. Captain of this ship. Live in Sangoa, when ashore."