THE LOTTERY OF DEATH
"Lend me a hand here, please," he said to Wilson, who lay nearest him.
"Wot do you want to throw 'im over for?" questioned the sailor, in a querulous voice.
"We've got to before we're too weak to do it," replied Clayton. "He'd be awful by tomorrow, after a day under that broiling sun."
"Better leave well enough alone," grumbled Wilson. "We may need him before tomorrow."
Slowly the meaning of the man's words percolated into Clayton's understanding. At last he realized the fellow's reason for objecting to the disposal of the dead man.
"God!" whispered Clayton, in a horrified tone. "You don't mean ———"
"W'y not?" growled Wilson. "Hain't we gotta live? He's dead," he added, jerking his thumb in the direction of the corpse. "He won't care."
"Come here, Thuran," said Clayton, turning toward the Russian. "We'll have something worse than death aboard us if we don't get rid of this body before dark."
Wilson staggered up menacingly to prevent the contemplated act, but when his comrade, Spider, took sides with Clayton and Monsieur Thuran he gave up, and sat eying the corpse hungrily as the three men, by combining their efforts, succeeded in rolling it overboard.
All the balance of the day Wilson sat glaring at Clayton, in his eyes the gleam of insanity. Toward
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