With a cry Captain leaped from his bunk, and took his face between his hands.
"Great God! George!"
He pushed back the lips. Livid blotches met his gaze—the gums swollen and discoloured. He dropped back sick and pale, staring at his bulky comrade, dazed and uncomprehending.
Carefully replacing the lamp, George continued:
"I felt it comin' quite a while back, pains in my knees an' all that—thought mebbe you'd notice me hobblin' about. I can't git around good—feel sort of stove up an' spavined on my feet."
"Yes, yes, but we've lived clean, and exercised, and drank spruce tea, and—everything," cried the other.
"I know, but I've had a touch before; it's in my blood I reckon. Too much salt grub; too many winters on the coast. She never took me so sudden an' vicious though. Guess the stuff's off."
"Don't talk that way," said Captain, sharply. "You're not going to die—I won't let you."
"Vat's the mattaire?" came a leering voice and, turning they beheld Klusky, the renegade. He had entered silently, as usual, and now darted shrewd inquiring glances at them.
"George has the scurvy."