"There's myself--Lashman, in his bunk--
David Faed, the Gaffer, the Snipe, Dan Cooney . . . One, two, three,
four--well, but that made _seven_. Then who was the seventh? Was it
George who had crawled out of bed and was kneeling there? Decidedly
there were five kneeling. No: there was George, plain enough, in his
berth, and not able to move. Then who was the stranger? Wrong again:
there was no stranger. He knew all these men--they were his mates.
Was it--Bill? No, Bill was dead and buried: none of these was Bill, or
like Bill. Try again--One, two, three, four, five--and us two sick men,
seven. The Gaffer, David Faed, Dan Cooney--have I counted Dan twice?
No, that's Dan, yonder to the right, and only one of him. Five men
kneeling, and two on their backs: that makes seven every time. Dear
God--suppose--"
The Gaffer ceased, and in the act of rising from his knees, caught sight
of Long Ede's face. While the others fetched their breakfast-cans, he
stepped over, and bent and whispered--
"Tell me. Ye've seen what?"
"Seen?" Long Ede echoed.
"Ay, seen what? Speak low--was it the sun?"
"The s--" But this time the echo died on his lips, and his face grew
full of awe uncomprehending. It frightened the Gaffer.
"Ye'll be the better of a snatch of sleep," said he; and was turning to
go, when Long Ede stirred a hand under the edge of his rugs.
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