"A very broth of a bhoy, eh?" laughed Paul.
"If he is one of the Daphne's crew, I am sure—I am certain that he had nothing to do with the mutiny."
"And that is the woman of it. Come. I'll go in to see him. Let me get a lantern out of the engine room."
"There is a lamp in his room. I filled it the way I saw you filling the sidelights."
"You'd make a great pioneer, Emily. Come."
Thus praise always came from him quickly for the doing of a helpful thing. She could imagine men working their fingers to the bone under his mastership.
Together they went aft, Emily preceding Paul through the alleyway to the derelict's door. The light in the lamp, which hung in gimbals against the forward bulkhead of the room, was low. Emily went in and turned it up.
"Are you feeling better?" she asked cheerily.
"Yes, nurse, easier—much easier," came his answer rather thickly. His face was toward the inside of the berth. He turned over painfully, his eyelids fluttering. "Has the cap—the Ould Man——"
His lips froze as he discovered Paul Lavelle in the doorway. He started up on his right elbow. His eyes bulged wildly. His jaw went loose. He made a vain effort to lift his left hand to his brow in a salute. He tried to speak, but his tongue clicked in his throat like a twig crackling. With a weird, eery cry he fell back in the berth senseless.