Neville, who had slept like a stone, came on deck just before sunset. The piled-up seas, racing along the side, had lost their breaking crests; the ship rose and fell with some degree of regularity. He called the boatswain and went to the store-room. They found Larry in one of his conscious moments. "Well, Mouse, we're going to fix you in a better place," the engineer called with what heart he could show. "Thank you kindly, sir," Larry managed to answer; "but 't is my last voyage, Mr. Neville." And the grit that lay hidden in the man's soul showed in his pain-twisted smile. They carried him up the last flight of iron stairs to the deck. Clear of the engine-room, the boatswain turned toward the bow. "No. The other way, Boson," Neville ordered. The chief, passing them, stopped. "Where are you taking him, Mr. Neville?" "The poor fellow's dying, sir," Neville answered in a low voice. "Well, where are you taking him?" the chief persisted. "I'd like to put him in my room, sir." "A stoker in officers' quarters!" The chief frowned. "Sunday-school discipline!" He disappeared through the engine-room door, slamming it after him. They did what they could, these seamen, for the injured man; on freighters one of the crew has no business to get hurt. They laid Larry in Neville's berth and went out, leaving a sailor to watch over him. The sun rose the next day in a cloudless sky, and shone on a brilliant sea of tumbling, white-capped waves. Far off the starboard bow floated a thin line of smoke from a tug's funnel, the first sign to the crew since the hurricane that the world was not swept clean of ships. Two hours later the tug was standing by, her captain hailing the _San Gardo_ through a megaphone. "Run in to New Orleans!" he shouted. "I cleared for Galveston, and I'm going there," the _San Gardo's_ captain called back. "No, you ain't neither." "I'd like to know why, I won't." "Because you can't,"--the answer carried distinctly across the waves,--"there ain't no such place. It's been washed clean off the earth." The _San Gardo_ swung farther to the west and with her engine pounding at every stroke, limped on toward the Mississippi. At five o'clock a Port Eads pilot climbed over the side, and taking the vessel through South Pass, straightened her in the smooth, yellow waters of the great river for the hundred-mile run to New Orleans. When the sun hung low over the sugar plantations that stretch in flat miles to the east and west beyond the levees, when all was quiet on land and water and ship, Neville walked slowly to the forecastle. "Sullivan," he called, "come with me." Dan climbed down from his bunk and came to the door; the big stoker searched Neville's face with a changed, sobered look. "I've been wantin' all this time to go to 'im. How's he now, sir?" "He's dying, Sullivan, and has asked for you." Outside Neville's quarters Dan took off his cap and went quietly into the room.