He turned in appeal to his old acquaintance.
"There was no fire, Slade," replied the executive officer gently. "No sign of fire that we could find, except that the starboard rail was blistered."
"Oh, that was from the volcano," said Slade. "That was nothing."
"It was all there was," returned Barnett.
"Just let me run this thing over," said the free lance slowly. "You found the schooner. She wasn't afire. She didn't even seem to have been afire. You put a crew aboard under your ensign, Edwards. Storm separated you from her. You picked her up again deserted. Is that right?"
"Day before yesterday morning."
"Then," cried the other excitedly, "the fire was smouldering all the time. It broke out and your men took to the water."
"Impossible," said Barnett.
"Fiddlesticks!" said the more downright surgeon.
"I hardly think Mr. Edwards would be driven overboard by a fire which did not even scorch his ship," suggested the captain mildly.
"It drove our lot overboard," insisted Slade. "Do you think we were a pack of cowards? I tell you, when that hellish thing broke loose, you had to go. It wasn't fear. It wasn't pain. It was What's the use. You can't explain a thing like that."
"We certainly saw the glow the night Billy Edwards was—disappeared," mused Forsythe.
"And again, night before last," said the captain.
"What's that!" cried Slade. "Where is the Laughing Lass?"
