the men had gone. They became indifferent to each other. It was Falk
who took in hand the distribution of such food as remained. They boiled
their boots for soup to eke out the rations, which only made their
hunger more intolerable. Sometimes whispers of hate were heard passing
between the languid skeletons that drifted endlessly to and fro, north
and south, east and west, upon that carcase of a ship.

And in this lies the grotesque horror of this sombre story. The last
extremity of sailors, overtaking a small boat or a frail craft, seems
easier to bear, because of the direct danger of the seas. The confined
space, the close contact, the imminent menace of the waves, seem to draw
men together, in spite of madness, suffering and despair. But there
was a ship--safe, convenient, roomy: a ship with beds, bedding, knives,
forks, comfortable cabins, glass and china, and a complete cook's
galley, pervaded, ruled and possessed by the pitiless spectre of
starvation. The lamp oil had been drunk, the wicks cut up for food, the
candles eaten. At night she floated dark in all her recesses, and full
of fears. One day Falk came upon a man gnawing a splinter of pine wood.
Suddenly he threw the piece of wood away, tottered to the rail, and fell
over. Falk, too late to prevent the act, saw him claw the ship's side
desperately before he went down. Next day another man did the same
thing, after uttering horrible imprecations. But this one somehow
managed to get hold of the broken rudder chains and hung on there,
silently. Falk set about trying to save him, and all the time the man,
holding with both hands, looked at him anxiously with his sunken eyes.
Then, just as Falk was ready to put his hand on him, the man let go his
hold and sank like a stone. Falk reflected on these sights. His heart
revolted against the horror of death, and he said to himself that he
would struggle for every precious minute of his life.