He selected a cigar from an open box on the table and lighted it leisurely.
At last he ordered: "Pick him up." The chief engineer was jerked to his feet and stood with a trickle of blood running down from his split lip.

His face was rather purple than red, and the dark pouches underneath his eyes told the horror of the night he had passed.

Nevertheless, the eyes themselves were bright.
Far away, half heard, and drowned by any noise near at hand, was a sound of singing.

It was Black McTee in the wireless house, half maddened by thirst and hunger and despair, and singing in defiance songs of bonny Scotland.
"There's been trouble aboard, chief," he said, "but now trouble's over.
All over! We want you to take charge of the engines again and bring us to shore." Campbell waited, not as if he had not heard.

In spite of himself, Hovey stirred a trifle and grew uneasy.