Coal piling was just getting under way in the heaving dock, when the
door to Caradoc's cabin swung open and the Englishman stepped out.
A glance at the tall fellow told Madden how he fared. The narrow-set
eyes were inflamed, the long bronze face had lost firmness and seemed
inclined to sag in lines.
"Smith," called Madden friendlily, "you may help pile coal if you feel
like it."
"I--that demijohn that you took last night," began the Briton nervously.
"Yes," Madden became serious.
"I want it, if you please."
Madden looked at the unstrung fellow. "Can't get it, Smith; you've had
too much already."
"Can't get my own property?" demanded Caradoc, raising his voice so all
the men could hear.
"No," snapped Madden, "you know sailors are not allowed to keep liquor
in their dunnage."
"That's my demijohn and I'll----"
"I smashed it, and the pieces washed overboard long ago."
"Overboard!" cried the big fellow. He turned hot eyes seaward as if
searching the waters, then for the first time noticed the fantastic
ocean around him. He stared at it with a strange expression.
"What--what is that--where are we, Madden?" he asked with a catch in
his breath.
The fellow's tremulous condition touched the American. "Tug broke away
last night--we're adrift in the Sargasso.
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