propped up in his bunk. Trendon entered first, followed by the captain, then Darrow.
"Here's your prize, Slade," said the surgeon.
Darrow halted, just inside the door. With an eager light in his face Slade leaned forward and stretched out his hand.
"I couldn't believe it until I saw you, old man," he cried.
Darrow's eyebrows went up. Before Slade had time to note that there was no response to his outstretched hand, the surgeon had jumped in and pushed him roughly back upon his pillow.
"What did you promise?" he growled. "You were to lie still, weren't you? And you'll do it, or out we go."
"How are you, Eagen?" drawled Darrow.
"Not Eagen. I'm done with that. They've told you, haven't they?"
Darrow nodded. "Are you the only survivor?" he inquired.
"Except yourself."
"The Nigger? Pulz? Thrackles? The captain? All drowned?"
"Not the captain. They murdered him."
"Ah," said Darrow softly. "And you—I beg your pardon—your—er—friends disposed of the doctor in the same way?"
"Handy Solomon," replied Slade with shaking lips. "Hell's got that fiend, if there's a hell for human fiends. They threw the doctor's body in the surf."
"You didn't notice whether there were any papers?"
