“He's hiding,” the captain soliloquized. “Now, where would I take shelter if I were in his fix? Why, back of the hatch-coaming, of course—or the winch.” He had a sudden inspiration and called aloud:
“Riggins! Riggins! Answer me, Riggins. This is Captain Murphy calling you.”
“'Ere, sir,” came the voice of Riggins from the pilot-house above. The voice was very weak.
“Climb out of the pilot-house, Riggins, to the bridge, turn on the searchlight and bend it down here on the deck till I get a shot at this scoundrel. Don't be afraid of him, Riggins. It's Henckel and he can't shoot for beans. Get the light fair on him and keep it on him; it'll blind him and he won't be able to shoot you.”
“The dirty dawg!” snarled Riggins wearily. “'E come up on the bridge a while—ago—an' I drove 'im off—but 'e plugged me, sir—through the guts, sir—an' me a married man! Wot in 'ell'll my ol' woman—say—”
And that was the last word Riggins ever spoke. True, he managed to crawl out of the pilot-house and up the short companion to the bridge; he reached the searchlight, and while Mr. Henckel and Mike Murphy swapped shots below him he turned on the switch.
“Bend it on the deck, Riggins. On the deck, my bully, on the deck,” Mike Murphy pleaded as the great beam of white light shot skyward and remained there; nor could all of Murphy's pleading induce Riggins to bend it on the deck, for Riggins was lying dead beside the searchlight, while ten miles away an officer on the flying bridge of H.M.S. Panther watched that finger of light pointing and beckoning with each roll of the ship.
“Something awf'lly queer, what?” he commented when reporting it to his superior.
“Rather,” the superior replied laconically. “It can't be the Dresden and neither is it one of ours. We'll skip over and have a look at her, Reggie, my son.”