The attendant came with a glass of liquid.

“Drink this,” ordered the surgeon, “and in a few minutes you’ll feel
better.”

“I—I feel awful,” Truax groaned.

The dose was repeated, but the patient continued to grow worse. His nausea
was overwhelming and he vomited over and over. In an interval of quiet the
doctor leaned over him.

“Have you anything on your mind, man? Any wrong you’d like to set straight
before—before—”

A look of fright came into Truax’s eyes.

“Doctor, I—I wonder if Jack Benson would come to see me?”

“I’ll see,” replied the doctor, rising and leaving the “sick bay.”

Ten minutes later the naval surgeon returned with Benson. Hal Hastings,
Mr. Mayhew and Ensign Trahern followed Jack and the doctor.

“Here’s Mr. Benson, Truax,” announced Doctor McCrea. “If there’s anything
you wish to confess, the rest of us can bear witness and help straighten
matters out if you’ve done any wrong that you now regret.”

Sam Truax feebly stretched out a hand that was hot and dry.

“Benson, will you give me your hand?”