“Hush!” said Bill, “mebbe he's been in the water a week or two, and can't quite make it out. See how he's looking at it now.”
He stayed on deck all day in the sun, but, as night came on, returned to the warmth of the fo'c's'le. The food we gave him remained untouched, and he took little or no notice of us, though I fancied that he saw the fear we had of him. He slept again in the dead man's bunk, and when morning came still lay there.
Until dinner-time, nobody interfered with him, and then Roberts, pushed forward by the others, approached him with some food. He motioned, it away with a dirty, bloated hand, and, making signs for water, drank it eagerly.
For two days he stayed there quietly, the black eyes always open, the stubby fingers always on the move. On the third morning Bill, who had conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called softly to us.
“Come and look at him,” said he. “What's the matter with him?”
“He's dying!” said the cook, with a shudder.
“He can't be going to die yet!” said Bill, blankly.
As he spoke the man's eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and he looked at us piteously and helplessly. From face to face he gazed in mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered two words.
We looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again touched his chest.
“It's his name,” said the cook, and we all repeated them.