I got close up to the doorway, and looked into the berth. The lamp was lit, and I could see, plainly. There were two bunks in the place, and a man had been laid in each. The Skipper was there, leaning up against a bulkshead. He looked worried; but was silent—seeming to be mooding in his own thoughts. The Second Mate was busy with a couple of flags, which he was spreading over the bodies. The First Mate was talking, evidently telling him something; but his tone was so low that I caught his words only with difficulty. It struck me that he seemed pretty subdued. I got parts of his sentences in patches, as it were.
"…broken," I heard him say. "And the Dutchman…."
"I've seen him," the Second Mate said, shortly.
"Two, straight off the reel," said the Mate "…three in…."
The Second made no reply.
"Of course, yer know … accident." The First Mate went on.
"Is it!" the Second said, in a queer voice.
I saw the Mate glance at him, in a doubtful sort of way; but the Second was covering poor old Jock's dead face, and did not appear to notice his look.
"It—it—" the mate said, and stopped.
After a moment's hesitation, he said something further, that I could not catch; but there seemed a lot of funk in his voice.