Michaelson and Voronoff, awakened by the hysterical cries of the youth, were sitting up. Michaelson stared incuriously around him, like a bird that finds itself in a strange forest and wonders how he got there. Then he pulled a small black notebook out of his pocket and began studying it. Ever since he had been in the life boat he had been studying the contents of the notebook, ignoring everything else.
"What's the idea of wasting water on him?" Voronoff said sullenly, nodding his head toward English. Margy Sharp was holding the cup to the youth's lips.
"What?" Craig was startled.
"He's done for," Voronoff asserted. He seemed to consider the statement sufficient. He did not attempt to explain it.
A cold glitter appeared in Craig's eyes. "So why waste water on him?" he questioned. "Is that what you mean?"
"That's exactly what I mean," Voronoff answered. "Why waste water on a dead man? We don't have any too much water anyhow."
"Go to hell!" Craig said contemptuously.
"You can say that because you've got the gun," Voronoff said.
Craig's face turned gray with anger but he controlled his temper. "If you think you can taunt me into throwing the gun away, you are mistaken," he said. "In the meantime, I have issued water to everyone else and I assume you and Michaelson will want your shares. If you will come aft, one at a time, I will see that you get it."