shark, son. Just look at the hundreds of 'em. There's a stiff on
board, sure."

Wilbur steadied himself on the swaying broken deck, choking
against the reek of coal-gas that hissed upward on every hand.
The heat was almost like a furnace. Everything metal was
intolerable to the touch.

"She's abandoned, sure," muttered the Captain. "Look," and he
pointed to the empty chocks on the house and the severed lashings.
"Oh, it's a haul, son; it's a haul, an' you can lay to that. Now,
then, cabin first," and he started aft.

But it was impossible to go into the cabin. The moment the door
was opened suffocating billows of gas rushed out and beat them
back. On the third trial the Captain staggered out, almost
overcome with its volume.

"Can't get in there for a while yet," he gasped, "but I saw the
stiff on the floor by the table; looks like the old man. He's
spit his false teeth out. I knew there was a stiff aboard."

"Then there's more than one," said Wilbur. "See there!" From
behind the wheel-box in the stern protruded a hand and forearm in
an oilskin sleeve.

Wilbur ran up, peered over the little space between the wheel and
the wheel-box, and looked straight into a pair of eyes--eyes that
were alive. Kitchell came up.