"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. "Ain'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 evening, as the sun was sinking
into the sea, he commenced to chuckle and mumble to himself, but
his eyes never left Clayton.