Once he caught a fragment of their talk,
enough to confirm this impression.
"Did Winton tell you that himself?" demanded the Scotchman.
The answer of his employee came in a murmur so low that the words were
lost. But the name used told Gordon a good deal. The Commissioner of the
General Land Office at Washington signed his letters Harold B. Winton.
Strong tossed the stub of his cigarette overboard and nodded
good-night. A glance at his watch told Elliot that it was past two
o'clock. He rose, stretched, and sauntered back to his stateroom.
The young man had just taken off his coat when there came the hurried
rush of trampling feet upon the hurricane deck above. Almost instantly
he heard a cry of alarm. Low voices, quick with suppressed excitement,
drifted back to him. He could hear the shuffling of footsteps and the
sound of heavy bodies moving.
Some one lifted a frightened shout. "Help! Help!" The call had come, he
thought, from Selfridge.
Gordon flung open the door of his room, raced along the deck, and took
the stairs three at a time. A huddle of men swayed and shifted heavily
in front of him. So close was the pack that the motion resembled the
writhing of some prehistoric monster rather than the movements of
individual human beings.
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