bared his right arm. His under lip still
trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain's penknife
was opened and passed to Gorman.

"Mahoney, tell me mother what happened to me, if ever ye get back,"
O'Brien requested.

Mahoney nodded.

"'Tis black murder, black an' damned," he said. "The b'y's flesh'll do
none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye'll not profit by it, none iv
yez."

"Get ready," the captain ordered. "You, Sullivan, hold the cover--that's
it--close up. Spill nothing. It's precious stuff."

Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He was weak. Besides, his
hand was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the knife. The
three boys were crouched apart, in a huddle, crying and sobbing. With
the exception of Mahoney, the men were gathered about the victim,
craning their necks to see.

"Be a man, Gorman," the captain cautioned.

The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back
and forth with the blade on O'Brien's wrist. The veins were severed.
Sullivan held the tureen cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped
wide, but no ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The
veins were dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures
swayed in unison with each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned
fixedly upon that inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a
creature that was alive.

"'Tis a warnin'," Mahoney cried. "Lave the b'y alone. Mark me words. His
death'll do none iv yez anny good."

"Try at the elbow--the left elbow, 'tis nearer the heart," the captain
said finally, in a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own.

"Give me the knife," O'Brien said roughly, taking it out of the cook's
hand. "I can't be lookin' at ye puttin' me to hurt."

Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow, but, like the cook, he
failed to bring blood.

"This is all iv no use," Sullivan said. "'Tis better to put him out iv
his misery by bleedin' him at the throat."

The strain had been too much for the lad.

"Don't be doin' ut," he cried. "There'll be no blood in me throat. Give
me a little time. 'Tis cold an' weak I am. Be lettin' me lay down an'
slape a bit. Then I'll be warm an' the blood'll flow."

"'Tis no use," Sullivan objected. "As if ye cud be slapin' at a time
like this. Ye'll not slape, and ye'll not warm up. Look at ye now.
You've an ague."

"I was sick at Limerick wan night," O'Brien hurried on, "an' the dochtor
cudn't bleed