Besides Craig, Margy Sharp, and Mrs. Miller, there were three other persons in the boat, all men. They were: English, a blond youth; Michaelson, a little bird of a man who seemed not yet to have comprehended what had happened to them, or to care; and Voronoff, whose chief distinguishing characteristic was a pair of furtive eyes. English had been wounded. He sat up and looked over the side of the boat. Pointing, he suddenly cried out: "Look! Look! There's a dragon! A flying dragon!" "Easy, old man," Craig said gently. For two days English had been delirious. The infection that had developed in his wound was quite beyond the curative powers of the simple medicines carried among the emergency stores of the life boat. "It's a dragon!" the youth shouted. "It's going to get us." He stared at something that he could see coming through the air. Craig drew his pistol. "If it comes after us, I'll shoot it," he said, displaying the gun. "See this pistol." "That won't stop _this_ dragon," English insisted. "Oh--oh--" His eyes widened with fright as he watched something coming through the sky. He ducked down in the bottom of the boat, hid his face in his hands. Men, caught unprotected in the open by a bombing raid, threw themselves to the ground like that, while they waited for the bombs to fall. A few minutes later, English looked up. Relief showed on his face. "It's gone away," he said. "It flew over and didn't see us." "There was no danger," Craig said gently. "It wouldn't have harmed us. It was a tame dragon." "There aren't any tame dragons!" the youth said scornfully. He was looking again at the sea. "There's a snake!" he yelled. "A huge snake! It's got its head out of the water--" "Poor kid," Margy Sharp whispered. "Can't we do something for him?" "I'm afraid not," Craig answered. "But you might take him some water." He poured a generous share into the cup, watched the girl take it to the youth, who drank it eagerly. * * * * * Michaelson and Voronoff, awakened by the hysterical cries of the youth, were sitting up. Michaelson stared incuriously around him, like a bird that finds itself in a strange forest and wonders how he got there. Then he pulled a small black notebook out of his pocket and began studying it. Ever since he had been in the life boat he had been studying the contents of the notebook, ignoring everything else. "What's the idea of wasting water on _him_?" Voronoff said sullenly, nodding his head toward English. Margy Sharp was holding the cup to the youth's lips. "What?" Craig was startled. "He's done for," Voronoff asserted. He seemed to consider the statement sufficient. He did not attempt to explain it. A cold glitter appeared in Craig's eyes. "So why waste water on him?" he questioned. "Is that what you mean?" "That's exactly what I mean," Voronoff answered. "Why waste water on a dead man? We don't have any too much water anyhow." "Go to hell!" Craig said contemptuously.