"I pulled you in, sir," said the sailor. "Are you from the ship that sank us?"
"Yes. I'm the mate, the chief officer."
"Well, if I'd 'a' know'd it, I mightn't have taken the trouble," said the seaman.
James said nothing. There was nothing for him to say. He knew the sailor was right. He knew the officers of his ship were men to scorn, to hate—but he would not say it was himself alone who had done the terrible deed. Something stopped him. It might have been sheer shame—or fear. He looked at the girl. Then he went to her and raised her, placing her upon a seat and trying to cheer her up.
"We'll be picked up soon—don't worry about it. Our ship will stand by and hunt for all the missing——"
"But I'm dreadfully cold," said the girl, with chattering teeth.
"Put my coat on, then," said James; and he took off his soaked coat and made her put it on.
The man grinned in derision.
"Say," he said, "who was on watch when you hit us?"
James took no notice. He would not answer the question. Then the girl spoke up.