The mate looked at him in astonishment.
"You here?" he called. "You'd better go below."
"I'm going," Drew answered. "I've had enough." With that he held out the knife.
"Where'd you get that?" demanded the mate, taking it.
Clinging to the life-lines, Drew told his story briefly, and as clearly as was possible in that shrieking gale, while Medbury turned the knife over and over in his hand.
"It's that damn' steward's," he said. "He's the one I threw out. I forgot him." His voice trailed off in the tumult of the storm, and Drew leaned forward to catch the words; then somehow he understood that the mate was asking about the steward.
"Gone," Drew shouted—"over the rail. I couldn't hold him."
"Damn' good thing," replied Medbury, and gently pushed him toward the companionway.