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.