“A long fight,” remarked the captain in German.

The other merely looked at him, contemplatively.  Carg stared for five minutes at the bandaged foot.  Finally: 

“Hard luck,” said he.

This time the German nodded, looking at the foot also.

“In America,” resumed the captain, puffing slowly, “they make fine artificial feet.  Walk all right.  Look natural.”

“Vienna,” said the German.

“Yes, I suppose so.”  Another pause.

“Name?” asked the German, with startling abruptness.  But the other never winked.

“Carg.  I’m a sailor.  Captain of this ship.  Live in Sangoa, when ashore.”

“Sangoa?”

“Island in South Seas.”

The wounded man reached for another cigarette and lighted it.

“Carg,” he repeated, musingly.  “German?”

“Why, my folks were, I believe.  I’ve relations in Germany, yet.  Munich.  Visited them once, when a boy.  Mother’s name was Elbl.  The Cargs lived next door to the Elbls.  But they’ve lost track of me, and I of them.  Nothing in common, you see.”

The German finished his cigarette, looking at the captain at times reflectively.  Carg, feeling his biography had not been appreciated, had lapsed into silence.  At length the wounded man began feeling in his breast pocket—­an awkward operation because the least action disturbed the swathed limb—­and presently drew out a leather card case.  With much deliberation he abstracted a card and handed it to the captain, who put on his spectacles and read: 

     “Otto Elbl. 12th Uhlans”

“Oh,” he said, looking up to examine the German anew.  “Otto Elbl of Munich?”

“Yes.”

“H-m.  Number 121 Friedrichstrasse?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t see you when I visited your family.  They said you were at college.  Your father was William Elbl, my mother’s brother.”

The German stretched out his hand and gripped the fist of the captain.

“Cousins,” he said.

Carg nodded, meditating.

“To be sure,” he presently returned; “cousins.  Have another cigarette.”

CHAPTER XI

PATSY IS DEFIANT

That evening the captain joined Dr. Gys on deck.

“That German, Lieutenant Elbl,” he began.

“Oh, is that his name?” asked Gys.

“Yes.  Will he get well?”

“Certainly.  What is a foot, to a man like him?  But his soldiering days are past.”

“Perhaps that’s fortunate,” returned the captain, ruminatively.  “When I was a boy, his father was burgomaster—­mayor—­in Munich.  People said he was well-to-do.  The Germans are thrifty, so I suppose there’s still money in the Elbl family.”

“Money will do much to help reconcile the man to the loss of his foot,” declared the doctor.

“Will he suffer much pain, while it is getting well?”