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Updated: May 25, 2025
Only once again did he speak during that endless climb in the silence of the dying ship, and what he said came in gasps. He was pulling indeed. "About that airtrunk," he managed to say "I'm sorry, sir!" The dawn came up out of the sea, like resurrection. In the Quartermaster's boat the woman slept heavily, with tears on her cheeks.
Being a Scot and a man of few words he merely said he was damned, and crawled back into bed. The game? Well, that was simple enough. Directly over his pillow, in the white-painted airtrunk, was a brass plate, fastened with four screws. In case of anything wrong with the ventilator the plate could be taken off for purposes of investigation.
On the threshold he seemed to scent something amiss. He glanced at the ceiling over his bunk, where the airtrunk lay, and then he looked at the boy. He stooped down and put a hand on the boy's head, turning it to the light. "Tell me now, lad," he said quietly, "did ye or did ye no ha' the toothache?" "It's better now," sullenly. "Did ye or did ye no?" "No."
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