the light and stifled a cry. The cup clattered from his hand and rolled to and fro about the deck with the rolling of the ship, finally stopping in a dark-red blot that marked the place where the unconscious sailor had been lying.
"Hans!" screamed the cook, as he held the limp form and felt a sticky warmth against his hand where it pressed the sailor's side.
Slowly the wounded man's eyes opened. For a moment he looked blankly at the frightened cook, and then a smile of recognition spread over his face.
"Albert," he said huskily. His eyes rolled aimlessly for a moment, and his head dropped forward. A shudder passed through him, and he collapsed in his brother's arms.
The cook lowered the still form to the deck. He rose to his feet and stood holding unsteadily to the lashing he had put on the pot of stew. The German sailor watched him intently.
"Your brother?" he asked.
The cook nodded slowly, and looked blankly at the form that now moved only with the rolling of the ship. A look of triumph crept into the eyes of the sailor.
"You're no American." he said, and with narrowed eyes watched for the effect of his words. "An American gun just killed your brother."
