The naval officer watched Whitridge until he disappeared through the saloon gangway.
"You look as you might—if you had seen a ghost, Campbell," said the civilian.
"I—I thought I did, Evans," stammered the officer and making an effort to recover control of himself. "I believed—I thought—that man was dead." His voice went to a whisper. "That—that's Lavelle of the Yakutat."
"No! Impossible!"
"It's he. I couldn't be mistaken. He was in the class at Annapolis with me."
"He's a rotter, if there ever was one," interrupted Evans bitterly. The other nodded dumbly. "Good thing he didn't land in the navy."
"Until he was shown up I was blamed for—for his being 'bilged,' you know. But really I wasn't to blame. Some of the fellows planted some beer and booze in our room; he stood mute, but I had to testify. They expelled him."
The officer spoke as if conscience-smitten, but his companion did not seem to be listening to him. He interrupted him.
"It's a mighty unpleasant thing to think of being in the same ship with a man like that," he said very solemnly. As he spoke a shudder passed over him.
The banging of a gong and a cry of "All ashore, who're going ashore!" cut short the conversation and hurried the officer over the side.