They had left Klopp lying on the deck. He had been one of the first to leap at White Henshaw, and a bullet from the captain's revolver had torn its way through his lungs; his eyes were glazing fast when two of the firemen carried him into the outer cabin of White Henshaw and placed him in an armchair beside the desk. "How are you, Klopp?" asked Hovey. "I am dying," answered the engineer, and a faint pink froth bubbled to his lips as he spoke. Hovey merely laughed; he spilled Klopp's share of the gold across the surface of the table, a gleaming pile. "How are you, Klopp?" he repeated. "I will live," croaked the dying man, and instantly his clutches were among the hundreds of coins, and his red mouth grinned with a ghastly joy. He had forgotten death. "You will live!" rumbled Sam Hall. "A man would be a fool to die when there's so much money in sight. Where's your hurt?" "I have no hurt," whispered Klopp hoarsely, "but I'm on fire inside. Water! Something to drink!" "Something to drink, but not water," responded Hovey. "Hey, Kamasura! Drink! Whisky!" Instantly Kamasura, who had evidently anticipated the order, came staggering into the room with a literal armful of bottles. Hovey himself brought a glass and placed it in the hand of Klopp and filled it to the brim. "Drink!" shouted Hovey, and sprang upon a chair so that all might see him. "Drink to Fritz Klopp! White Henshaw potted him, but he laughs at death, and he'll bring the old _Heron_ to shore. Here's to Fritz Klopp!" Many a glass was raised high. They drank with a shout of applause to Fritz Klopp, who sat without stirring his glass, one hand upon it, and the other buried among the heaps of gold, his head resting against the back of the chair, and his red mouth still ajar in that horrible grin. "What ye laughin' at?" yelled Sam Hall in his ear. "Are ye drunk at the sight of the money, man?" There was no answer. Hall caught him by the shoulder to rouse him, but Klopp's head merely sagged far to one side, though his glazed eyes still seemed to be fixed upward upon the same spot on the ceiling at which he had been staring before. "What is it?" cried one or two. "What does he see?" "Death, you fools!" answered Hovey. "And how the devil will we bring the _Heron_ to land without an engineer?" CHAPTER 33 "Make Campbell run the ship," said Cochrane. "You can't _make_ a Scotchman do anything." "Persuade him, then," went on Cochrane. "He'd sell his soul for a drink of that whisky. But if you can't persuade him, I'd trust to those fellows to make him do what you want." And he pointed to the firemen. "I'll let 'em play their little game till they're tired of it," answered Hovey, "an' then we'll bring up Campbell an' try what we can do with him."