en drowned?" the captain had asked him, and
Trendon replied:

"Captain Parkinson, the man wasn't drowned. No water in his lungs."

"Not drowned! Then how came he by his death?"

"If I were to diagnose it under any other conditions I should say that he
had inhaled flames."

Then the two men stared at each other in blank impotency. Meantime the
scarecrow was showing signs of returning consciousness and a message was
dispatched for the physician. On his way he met Barnett, who asked and
received permission to accompany him. The stranger was tossing restlessly
in his bunk, opening and shutting his parched mouth in silent, piteous
appeal for the water that must still be doled to him parsimoniously.

"I think I'll try him with a little brandy," said Trendon, and sent for
the liquor.

Barnett raised the patient while the surgeon held the glass to his lips.
The man's hand rose, wavered, and clasped the glass.

"All right, my friend. Take it yourself, if you like," said Trendon.

The fingers closed. Tremulously held, the little glass tilted and rattled
against the teeth. There was one deep, eager spasm of swallowing. Then
the fevered eyes opened upon the face of the _Wolverine_'s first
officer.

"Prosit, Barnett," said the man, in a voice like the rasp of rusty metal.

The navy man straightened up as from a blow under the jaw.

"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