"I'd like to know why, I won't."
"Because you can't,"—the answer carried distinctly across the waves,—"there ain't no such place. It's been washed clean off the earth."
The San Gardo swung farther to the west and with her engine pounding at every stroke, limped on toward the Mississippi.
At five o'clock a Port Eads pilot climbed over the side, and taking the vessel through South Pass, straightened her in the smooth, yellow waters of the great river for the hundred-mile run to New Orleans.
When the sun hung low over the sugar plantations that stretch in flat miles to the east and west beyond the levees, when all was quiet on land and water and ship, Neville walked slowly to the forecastle.
"Sullivan," he called, "come with me."
Dan climbed down from his bunk and came to the door; the big stoker searched Neville's face with a changed, sobered look.
"I've been wantin' all this time to go to 'im. How's he now, sir?"
"He's dying, Sullivan, and has asked for you."
Outside Neville's quarters Dan took off his cap and went quietly into the room.