The captain smote a thigh. “Coal!” he cried. “Anthracite coal. The coal he't up and generated gas, of course--no fire, y'understand, just gas--gas blew up the deck--no way of stopping combustion. Naturally they had to cut for it. Smell the gas, can't you? No wonder she's hissing--no wonder she rolled--cargo goes off in gas--and what's to weigh her down? I was wondering what could 'a' wrecked her in this weather. Lord, it's as plain as Billy-b'damn.” The dory was alongside. Kitchell watched his chance, and as the bark rolled down caught the mainyard-brace hanging in a bight over the rail and swung himself to the deck. “Look sharp!” he called, as Wilbur followed. “It won't do for you to fall among them shark, son. Just look at the hundreds of 'em. There's a stiff on board, sure.” Wilbur steadied himself on the swaying broken deck, choking against the reek of coal-gas that hissed upward on every hand. The heat was almost like a furnace. Everything metal was intolerable to the touch. “She's abandoned, sure,” muttered the Captain. “Look,” and he pointed to the empty chocks on the house and the severed lashings. “Oh, it's a haul, son; it's a haul, an' you can lay to that. Now, then, cabin first,” and he started aft. But it was impossible to go into the cabin. The moment the door was opened suffocating billows of gas rushed out and beat them back. On the third trial the Captain staggered out, almost overcome with its volume. “Can't get in there for a while yet,” he gasped, “but I saw the stiff on the floor by the table; looks like the old man. He's spit his false teeth out. I knew there was a stiff aboard.” “Then there's more than one,” said Wilbur. “See there!” From behind the wheel-box in the stern protruded a hand and forearm in an oilskin sleeve. Wilbur ran up, peered over the little space between the wheel and the wheel-box, and looked straight into a pair of eyes--eyes that were alive. Kitchell came up. “One left, anyhow,” he muttered, looking over Wilbur's shoulder; “sailor man, though; can't interfere with our salvage. The bark's derelict, right enough. Shake him out of there, son; can't you see the lad's dotty with the gas?” Cramped into the narrow space of the wheel-box like a terrified hare in a blind burrow was the figure of a young boy. So firmly was he wedged into the corner that Kitchell had to kick down the box before he could be reached. The boy spoke no word. Stupefied with the gas, he watched them with vacant eyes. Wilbur put a hand under the lad's arm and got him to his feet. He was a tall, well-made fellow, with ruddy complexion and milk-blue eyes, and was dressed, as if for heavy weather, in oilskins. “Well, sonny, you've had a fine mess aboard here,” said Kitchell. The boy--he might have been two and twenty--stared and frowned. “Clean loco from the gas. Get him into the dory, son. I'll try this bloody cabin again.”