“Be careful what you are about,” warned Trendon, addressing his superior officer sharply, for Barnett had all but let his charge drop.  His face was a puckered mask of amaze and incredulity.

“Did you hear him speak my name—­or am I dreaming?” he half whispered.

“Heard him plain enough.  Who is he?”

The man’s eyes closed, but he smiled a little—­a singular, wry-mouthed, winning smile.  With that there sprung from behind the brush of beard, filling out the deep lines of emaciation, a memory to the recognition of Barnett; a keen and gay countenance that whisked him back across seven years time to the days of Dewey and the Philippines.

“Ralph Slade, by the Lord!” he exclaimed.

“Of the Laughing Lass?” cried Trendon.

“Of the Laughing Lass.”

Such a fury of eagerness burned in the face of Barnett that Trendon cautioned him.  “See here, Mr. Barnett, you’re not going to fire a broadside of disturbing questions at my patient yet a while.  He’s in no condition.”

But it was from the other that the questions came.  Opening his eyes he whispered, “The sailor?  Where?”

“Dead,” said Trendon bluntly.  Then, breaking his own rule of repression, he asked: 

“Did he come off the schooner with you?”

“Picked him up,” was the straining answer.  “Drifting.”

The survivor looked around him, then into Barnett’s face, and his mind too, traversed the years.

“North Dakota?” he queried.

“No; I’ve changed my ship,” said Barnett.  “This is the Wolverine.”

“Where’s the Laughing Lass?”

Barnett shook his head.

“Tell me,” begged Slade.

“Wait till you’re stronger,” admonished Trendon.

“Can’t wait,” said the weak voice.  The eyes grew wild.

“Mr. Barnett, tell him the bare outline and make it short,” said the surgeon.

“We sighted the Laughing Lass two days ago.  She was in good shape, but deserted.  That is, we thought she was deserted.”

The man nodded eagerly.

“I suppose you were aboard,” said Barnett, and Trendon made a quick gesture of impatience and rebuke.

“No,” said Slade.  “Left three—­four—­don’t know how many nights ago.”

The officers looked at each other.  “Go on,” said Trendon to his companion.

“We put a crew aboard in command of an ensign,” continued Barnett, “and picked up the schooner the next night, deserted.  You must know about it.  Where is Billy Edwards?”

“Never heard of him,” whispered the other.

“Ives and McGuire, then.  They were there after—­Great God, man!” he cried, his agitation breaking out, “Pull yourself together!  Give us something to go on.”

“Mr. Barnett!” said the surgeon peremptorily.

But the suggestion was working in the sick man’s brain.  He turned to the officers a face of horror.