“Sweet talk,” I said. “He's scared stiff.”

“What's his name?”

I passed along the query, and got a tongueful of polysyllables that would have sunk a freighter. It was one of those old-fashioned family-tree monickers—so-and-so, son of so-and-so, son of somebody else, ad infinitum. When I tried to pass it along to the Old Man, he shrugged.

“Tell him we'll call him Johnny for short. Where did he come from? Was he on one of the evacuation ships?”

No, he had been on a merchantman.

Had his ship been sunk in last night's raid?

Raid? He had seen no raid, neither last night nor any night. He was a humble man, unworthy of our attentions. He wished but to be freed . . .

Then where had he come from. What was his ship, and where had it sailed from? Whither bound?

I relayed his answer to the Old Man. “His ship was the Warrior King, Tarshish, bound out of Joppa with a cargo of salt, wine and linens.”

“Joppa?” frowned the Skipper. “That would be Jaffa, near Jerusalem. But Tarshish? Perhaps he means Tarsus, in Turkey? But that's not a seaport. Oh, well, it doesn't matter. How long has he been floating around on that raft?”

“Three days,” I learned from our passenger.

“Then he wasn't shipwrecked last night. Is your wireless working, Sparks?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I don't know. Everything's happened so fast, and we've been under silence—”

“Yes, of course. Well, get it working and contact Larnaca for an index report on the—what was it?—Warrior King. If the registry is Allied or neutral, I suppose this old fellow is harmless.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “Right away, sir.”

“Oh, and before you go, tell our friend he's in no danger. That we're not going to eat him up.” The Old Man chuckled.

I translated the message. The results were—well, astonishing, to say the least! Old Whiskers loosed a little bleat of gratitude, then hopped up from his squat and hurled himself at the Old Man's feet, bowing and slobbering like the skipper was on a pedestal or something.

The Old Man backed away, startled and embarrassed.

“I say, old chap! You needn't be so blasted. . . . Look out! Careful, there! Oh, damn it! Damn it all!”

He glared fretfully at his right hand, bleeding from a long and nasty gash. Retreating from Johnny, he'd snagged it on a bolthead and ripped it open from forefinger to wrist. He clamped a handkerchief to the cut, swearing magnificently.

“Lock him in again, Sparks. I've got to take this to the medico. Carry on!” And he left.

I said to Johnny savagely, “Now, see? You caused that!”

I expected a torrent of apologies and denials, but I was wrong. Johnny