One afternoon--as the survivors lay about on the after deck--the
carpenter, a tall man with a black beard, spoke of the last sacrifice.
There was nothing eatable left on board. Nobody said a word to this; but
that company separated quickly, these listless feeble spectres slunk
off one by one to hide in fear of each other. Falk and the carpenter
remained on deck together. Falk liked the big carpenter. He had been the
best man of the lot, helpful and ready as long as there was anything to
do, the longest hopeful, and had preserved to the last some vigour and
decision of mind.

They did not speak to each other. Henceforth no voices were to be heard
conversing sadly on board that ship. After a time the carpenter tottered
away forward; but later on, Falk going to drink at the fresh-water pump,
had the inspiration to turn his head. The carpenter had stolen upon him
from behind, and, summoning all his strength, was aiming with a crowbar
a blow at the back of his skull.

Dodging just in time, Falk made his escape and ran into his cabin. While
he was loading his revolver there, he heard the sound of heavy blows
struck upon the bridge. The locks of the chartroom doors were slight,
they flew open, and the carpenter, possessing himself of the captain's
revolver, fired a shot of defiance.

Falk was about to go on deck and have it out at once, when he remarked
that one of the ports of his cabin commanded the approaches to the
freshwater pump. Instead of going out he remained in and secured the
door. "The best man shall survive," he said to himself--and the other,
he reasoned, must at some time or other come there to drink. These
starving men would drink often to cheat the pangs of their hunger. But
the carpenter too must have noticed the position of the port. They were