“He’s half-dead now!” whispered Roberts.

“Hush!” said Bill, “mebbe he’s been in the water a week or two, and can’t quite make it out.  See how he’s looking at it now.”

He stayed on deck all day in the sun, but, as night came on, returned to the warmth of the fo’c’s’le.  The food we gave him remained untouched, and he took little or no notice of us, though I fancied that he saw the fear we had of him.  He slept again in the dead man’s bunk, and when morning came still lay there.

Until dinner-time, nobody interfered with him, and then Roberts, pushed forward by the others, approached him with some food.  He motioned, it away with a dirty, bloated hand, and, making signs for water, drank it eagerly.

For two days he stayed there quietly, the black eyes always open, the stubby fingers always on the move.  On the third morning Bill, who had conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called softly to us.

“Come and look at him,” said he.  “What’s the matter with him?”

“He’s dying!” said the cook, with a shudder.

“He can’t be going to die yet!” said Bill, blankly.

As he spoke the man’s eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and he looked at us piteously and helplessly.  From face to face he gazed in mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered two words.

We looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again touched his chest.

“It’s his name,” said the cook, and we all repeated them.

He smiled in an exhausted fashion, and then, rallying his energies, held up a forefinger; as we stared at this new riddle, he lowered it, and held up all four fingers, doubled.

“Come away,” quavered the cook; “he’s putting a spell on us.”

We drew back at that, and back farther still, as he repeated the motions.  Then Bill’s face cleared suddenly, and he stepped towards him.

“He means his wife and younkers!” he shouted eagerly.  “This ain’t no Jem Dadd!”

It was good then to see how our fellows drew round the dying sailor, and strove to cheer him.  Bill, to show he understood the finger business, nodded cheerily, and held his hand at four different heights from the floor.  The last was very low, so low that the man set his lips together, and strove to turn his heavy head from us.

“Poor devil!” said Bill, “he wants us to tell his wife and children what’s become of him.  He must ha’ been dying when he come aboard.  What was his name, again?”

But the name was not easy to English lips, and we had already forgotten it.

“Ask him again,” said the cook, “and write it down.  Who’s got a pen?”

He went to look for one as Bill turned to the sailor to get him to repeat it.  Then he turned round again, and eyed us blankly, for, by this time, the owner had himself forgotten it.