"Ah dond't care about de bett," continued the big German. "De bett is
noting, but, look here, Cabtin--Ah tell you Ah look to vin dot
Merchants' Cup. _Gott_! Ah vass _verrickt_ ven your boys come in
first. Ach so! Und now de Cup iss at de bottom of de Pacific." He
sighed regretfully. "_Gott_! I van't t' be de first Sherman to vin
dot Cup too!"
The mate of the _Rickmers_ came on the poop and said something to his
captain. Schenke turned to the old man in some wonderment. . . . "Vat
dis is, eh? My mate tell me dot your boys is want to speak mit me.
Vat it is, Cabtin? No troubles I hope?"
Burke looked as surprised as the other. "Send them up, Heinrich," he
said. We, the crew of the _Hilda's_ gig, filed on to the poop, looking
as hot and uncomfortable as proper sailorfolk should do when they come
on a deputation. Jones headed us, and he carried a parcel under his
arm.
"Captain Schenke," he said. "We are all here--the crew of the
_Hilda's_ gig, that you picked up when--when--we were in a bad way.
All here but poor Gregson."
The big lad's voice broke as he spoke of his lost watchmate. "An, if
he was here he would want t' thank ye too for the way you've done by
us. I can't say any more, Captain Schenke--but we want you to take a
small present from us--the crew of the _Hilda's_ gig." He held out the
parcel.
Only half understanding the lad's broken words, Schenke took the parcel
and opened it. "_Ach Gott_ _Lieber Gott_," he said, and turned to show
the gift to old Burke. Tears stood in the big "squarehead's" eyes;
stood, and rolled unchecked down his fat cheeks. Tears of pleasure!
Tears of pity! Stretched between his hands was a weather-beaten flag,
its white emblem stained and begrimed by sea-water!
A tattered square of blue silk--the flag of the Merchants' Cup!