It was the first of the rescued crew--a lifeless figure wrapped in oil-skins, with one arm hanging limply down, as if broken.

Ruby halted, and gave time to come up.
"Hey, lads," shouted Old Zeb, who walked first, with a hand round each of the figure's sea-boots; "now that's what I'd call a proper womanly masterpiece, to run home to Sheba an' change her stockings in time for the randivoose." "I don't understand," said his prospective daughter-in-law, haughtily.
"O boundless depth! Rest the poor mortal down, mates, while I take breath to humour her.

Why, my dear, you must know from my tellin' that there _hev_ a-been such a misfortunate goin's on as a wreck, hereabouts." He paused to shake the rain out of his hat and whiskers.

Ruby stole a look at the oil-skin.

The sailor's upturned face was of a sickly yellow, smeared with blood and crusted with salt.