On men reprieved by its disdainful mercy, the immortal sea confers in its justice the full privilege of desired unrest. Through the perfect wisdom of its grace they are not permitted to meditate at ease upon the complicated and acrid savour of existence, lest they should remember and, perchance, regret the reward of a cup of inspiring bitterness, tasted so often, and so often withdrawn from before their stiffening but reluctant lips. They must without pause justify their life to the eternal pity that commands toil to be hard and unceasing, from sunrise to sunset, from sunset to sunrise: till the weary succession of nights and days tainted by the obstinate clamour of sages, demanding bliss and an empty heaven, is redeemed at last by the vast silence of pain and labour, by the dumb fear and the dumb courage of men obscure, forgetful, and enduring.

The master and Mr. Baker coming face to face stared for a moment, with the intense and amazed looks of men meeting unexpectedly after years of trouble. Their voices were gone, and they whispered desperately at one another. — ‘Any one missing?’ asked Captain Allistoun. — ‘No, All there.’ — ‘Anybody hurt?’ — ‘Only the second mate.’ — ‘I will look after him directly. We’re lucky.’ — ‘Very,’ articulated Mr. Baker, faintly. He gripped the rail and rolled bloodshot eyes. The little grey man made an effort to raise his voice above a dull mutter, and fixed his chief mate with a cold gaze, piercing like a dart. — ‘Get sail on the ship,‘he said, speaking authoritatively, and with an inflexible snap of his thin lips. ‘Get sail on her as soon as you can. This is a fair wind. At once, sir — Don’t give the men time to feel themselves. They will get done up and stiff, and we will never . . . We must get her along now’ . . . He reeled to a long heavy roll; the rail dipped into the glancing hissing water. He caught a shroud, swung helplessly against the mate . . . ‘now we have a fair wind at last. — Make — sail.’ His head rolled from shoulder to shoulder. His eyelids began to beat rapidly. ‘And the pumps — pumps, Mr. Baker.’ He peered as though the face within a foot of his eyes had been half a mile off. ‘Keep the men on the move to — to get her along.’ he mumbled in a drowsy tone, like a man going off into a doze. He pulled himself together suddenly. ‘Mustn’t stand. Won’t do,’ he said with a painful attempt at a smile. He let go his hold, and, propelled by the dip of the ship, ran aft unwillingly, with small steps, till he brought up against the binnacle stand. Hanging on there he looked up in an objectless manner at Singleton, who, unheeding him, watched anxiously the end of the jib-boom — ‘Steering gear works all right?’ he asked. There was a noise in the old seaman’s throat, as though the words had been rattling there together before they could come out. — ‘Steers . . . like a little boat,’ he said, at last, with hoarse tenderness, without giving the master as much as half a glance — then, watchfully, spun the wheel down, steadied, flung it back again. Captain Allistoun tore himself away from the delight of leaning against the binnacle, and began to walk the poop, swaying and reeling to preserve his balance . . .

The pump-rods, clanking, stamped in short jumps, while the fly-wheels turned smoothly, with great speed, at the foot of the mainmast, flinging back and forth with a regular impetuosity two limp clusters of men clinging to the handles. They abandoned themselves, swaying from the hip with twitching faces and stony eyes. The carpenter, sounding from time to time, exclaimed mechanically:‘Shake her up! Keep her going!’ Mr. Baker could not speak, but found his voice to shout; and under the goad of his objurgations, men looked to the lashings, dragged out new sails; and thinking themselves unable to move, carried heavy blocks aloft — overhauled the gear. They went up the rigging with faltering and desperate efforts. Their heads swam as they shifted their hold, stepped blindly on the yards like men in the dark; or trusted themselves to the first rope to hand with the negligence of exhausted strength. The narrow escape from the falls did not disturb the languid beat of their hearts; the roar of the seas seething far below them sounded continuous and faint like an indistinct noise from another world; the wind filled their eyes with tears, and with heavy gusts tried to push them off from where they swayed in insecure positions. With streaming faces and blowing hair they flew up and down between sky and water, bestriding the ends of yard-arms, crouching on foot-ropes, embracing lifts to have their hands free, or standing up against chain ties. Their thoughts floated vaguely between the desire of rest and the desire of life, while their stiffened fingers cast off head-earrings, fumbled for knives, or held with tenacious grip against the violent shocks of beating canvas. They glared savagely at one another, made frantic signs with one hand while they held their life in the other, looked down on the narrow strip of flooded deck, shouted along to leeward:’ Light-to!’ . . . ‘Haul out!’ . . . ‘Make fast!’. Their lips moved, their eyes started, furious and eager with the desire to be understood, but the wind tossed their words unheard upon the disturbed sea. In an unendurable and unending strain they worked like men driven by a merciless dream to toil in an atmosphere of ice or flame. They burnt and shivered in turns. Their eyeballs smarted as if in the smoke of a conflagration; their heads were ready to burst with every shout. Hard fingers seemed to grip their throats. At every roll they thought; Now I must let go. It will shake us all off — and thrown about aloft they cried wildly: ‘Look out there — catch the end.’ . . . ‘Reeve clear’ . . . ‘Turn this block . . . ’ They nodded desperately; shook infuriated faces. ‘No! No! From down up.’ They seemed to hate one another with a deadly hate. The longing to be done with it all gnawed at their breasts, and the wish to do things well was a burning pain. They cursed their fate, contemned their life, and wasted their breath in deadly imprecations upon one another. The sailmaker, with his bald head bared, worked feverishly, forgetting his intimacy with so many admirals. The boatswain, climbing up with marlinspikes and bunches of spunyarn rovings, or kneeling on the yard and ready to take a turn with the midship-stop, had acute and fleeting visions of his old woman and the youngsters in a moorland village. Mr. Baker, feeling very weak, tottered here and there, grunting and inflexible, like a man of iron. He waylaid those who, coming from aloft, stood gasping for breath. He ordered, encouraged, scolded. ‘Now then — to the top mainsail now! Tally on to that gantline. Don’t stand about there!’ — ‘Is there no rest for us?’ muttered voices. He spun round fiercely, with a sinking heart. — ‘No! No rest till the work is done. Work till you drop. That’s what you’re here for.’ A bowed seaman at his elbow gave a short laugh. — ‘Do or die,’ he croaked bitterly, then spat into his broad palms, swung up his long arms, and grasping the rope high above his head sent out mournful, wailing cry for a pull all together. A sea boarded the quarter-deck and sent the whole lot sprawling to leeward. Caps, handspikes floated. Clenched hands, kicking legs, with here and there a spluttering face, stuck out of the white hiss of foaming water. Mr. Baker, knocked down with the rest, screamed — ‘Don’t let go that rope! Hold on to it! Hold!‘And sorely bruised by the brutal fling, they held on to it, as though it had been the fortune of their life. The ship ran, rolling heavily, and the topping crests glanced past port and starboard flashing their white heads. Pumps were freed. Braces were rove. The three topsails and foresail were set. She spurted faster over the water, outpacing the swift rush of waves. The menacing thunder of distanced seas rose behind her — filled the air with the tremendous vibrations of its voice. And devastated, battered, and wounded she drove foaming to the northward, as though inspired by the courage of a high endeavour . . .

The forecastle was a place of damp desolation. They looked at their dwelling with dismay. It was slimy, dripping; it hummed hollow with the wind, and was strewn with shapeless wreckage like a half-tide cavern in a rocky and exposed coast. Many had lost all they had in the world, but most of the starboard watch had preserved their chests; thin streams of water trickled out of them, however. The beds were soaked; the blankets spread out and saved by some nail squashed under foot. They dragged wet rags from evil-smelling corners, and, wringing the water our, recognised their property. Some smiled stiffly. Others looked round blank and mute.

There were cries of joy over old waistcoats, and groans of sorrow over shapeless things found amongst the black splinters of smashed bed boards. One lamp was discovered jammed under the bowsprit, Charley whimpered a little. Knowles stumped here and there, sniffing, examining dark places for salvage. He poured dirty water out of a boot, and was concerned to find the owner. Those who, overwhelmed by their losses, sat on the forepeak hatch, remained elbows on knees, and, with a fist against each cheek, disdained to look up. He pushed it under their noses. ‘Here’s a good boot. Yours?’ They snarled, ‘No — get out.’ One snapped at him, ‘Take it the hell out of this.’ He seemed surprised. ‘Why? It’s a good boot,’ but remembering suddenly that he had lost every stitch of his clothing, he dropped his find and began to swear. In the dim light cursing voices clashed. A man came in and, dropping his arms, stood still, repeating from the doorstep, ‘Here’s a bloomin’ old go! Here’s a bloomin’ old go!’ A few rooted anxiously in flooded chests for tobacco. They breathed hard, clamoured with heads down, ‘Look at that, Jack!’ . . . ‘Here! Sam! Here’s my shore-going rig spoilt for ever.’ One blasphemed tearfully holding up a pair of dripping trousers. No one looked at him. The cat came out from somewhere. He had an ovation. They snatched him from hand to hand, caressed him in a murmur of pet names. They wondered where he had ‘weathered it out;’ disputed about it. A squabbling argument began. Two men came in with a bucket of fresh water, and all crowded round it; but Tom, lean and mewing, came up with every hair astir and had the first drink. A couple of men went aft for oil and biscuits.

Then in the yellow light and in the intervals of mopping the deck they crunched hard bread, arranging to ‘worry through somehow.’ Men chummed as to beds. Turns were settled for wearing boots and having the use of oilskin coats. They called one another ‘old man’ and ‘sonny’ in cheery voices. Friendly slaps resounded. Jokes were shouted. One or two stretched on the wet deck, slept with heads pillowed on their bent arms, and several, sitting on the hatch, smoked. Their weary faces appeared through a thin blue haze, pacified and with sparkling eyes. The boatswain put his head through the door. ‘Relieve the wheel. one of you’ — he shouted inside — ‘it’s six. Blamme if that old Singleton hasn’t been there more’n thirty hours. You are a fine lot.’ He slammed the door again. ‘Mate’s watch on deck,’ said some one. ‘Hey, Donkin, it’s your relief!’ shouted three or four together. He had crawled into an empty bunk and on wet planks lay still. ‘Donkin, your wheel.’ He made no sound. ‘Donkin’s dead,’ guffawed some one. ‘Sell ’is bloomin’ clothes,’ shouted another. ‘Donkin, ifye don’t go to the bloomin’ wheel they will sell your clothes — d’ye hear?’ jeered a third. He groaned from his dark hole. He complained about pains in all his bones, he whimpered pitifully. ‘He won’t go,’ exclaimed a contemptuous voice, ‘your turn, Davies.’ The young seaman rose painfully squaring his shoulders. Donkin stuck his head out, and it appeared in the yellow light, fragile and ghastly. ‘I will giv’ yer a pound of tobaccer,’ he whined in a conciliating voice, ‘so soon as I can draw it from haft. I will’I will — s’help me . . . ’ Davies swung his arm backhanded and the head vanished. ‘I’ll go, he said, but you will pay for it.’ He walked unsteady but resolute in the door. ‘So I will,’ yelped Donkin, popping out behind him. ‘So I will — s’elp me . . . three bob they chawrge.’ ‘You will pay my price . . . in fine weather.’ he shouted over his shoulder. One of the men unbuttoned his wet coat rapidly, threw it at his head. ‘Here, Taffy — take that, you thief!’ ‘Thank you!’ he cried from the darkness above the swish of rolling water. He could be heard splashing; a sea came on board with a thump. ‘He’s got his bath already,’ remarked a grim shellback. ‘Aye, aye!’ grunted the others. Then, after a long silence, Wamibo made strange noises. ‘Hallo, what’s up with you?’ said one grumpily. ‘He says he would have gone for Davy,’ explained Archie, who was the Finn’s interpreter generally. ‘I believe him!’ cried voices . . . ‘Never mind, Dutchy . . . You’ll do, muddle-head . . . Your turn will come soon enough . . . You don’t know when ye’re well off.’ They ceased, and all together turned their faces to the door. Singleton stepped in, made two paces, and stood swaying slightly. The sea hissed, flowed roaring past the bows, and the forecastle trembled, full of a deep rumour; the lamp flared, swinging like a pendulum. He looked with a dreamy and puzzled stare, as though he could not distinguish the still men from their restless shadows. There were awe-struck murmurs:— ‘Hallo, hallo’ . . . ‘How does it look outside now, Singleton?’ Those who sat on the hatch lifted their eyes in silence, and the next oldest seaman in the ship (those two understood one another, though they hardly exchanged three words in a day) gazed up at his friend attentively for a moment, then taking a short clay pipe out of his mouth, offered it without a word. Singleton put out his arm towards it, missed, staggered, and suddenly fell forward, crashing down, stiff and headlong like an uprooted tree. There was a swift rush. Men pushed, crying:— ‘He’s done!’ . . . ‘Turn him over!’ . . . ‘Stand clear there!’ Under a crowd of startled faces bending over him he lay on his back, staring upwards in a continuous and intolerable manner. In the breathless silence of a general consternation, he said in a grating murmur:— ‘I am all right,’ and clutched with his hands. They helped him up. He mumbled despondently:— ‘I am getting old . . . old.’ — ‘Not you,’ cried Belfast, with ready tact. Supported on all sides, he hung his head. — ‘Are you better?’ they asked. He glared at them from under his eyebrows with large black eyes, spreading over his chest the bushy whiteness of a beard long and thick. — ‘Old! old!’ he repeated sternly. Helped along, he reached his bunk. There was in it a slimy soft heap of something that smelt like does at dead low water a muddy foreshore. It was his soaked straw bed. With a convulsive effort he pitched himself on it, and in the darkness of the narrow place could be heard growling angrily, like an irritated and savage animal uneasy in its den:— ‘Bit of breeze . . . small thing . . . can’t stand up . . . old!’ He slept at last. He breathed heavily, high-booted, sou’wester on head, and his oilskin clothes rustled, when with a deep sighing groan he turned over. men conversed about him in quiet concerned whispers. ‘This will break ’im up’ . . . ‘Strong as a horse’ . . . ‘Aye. But he ain’t what he used to be’ . . . In sad murmurs they gave him up. Yet at midnight he turned out to duty as if nothing had been the matter, and answered to his name with a mournful ‘Here!’ He brooded alone more than ever, in an impenetrable silence and with a saddened face. For many years he had heard himself called ‘Old Singleton,’ and had serenely accepted the qualification, taking it as a tribute of respect due to a man who through half a century had measured his strength against the favours and the rages of the sea. He had never given a thought to his mortal self. He lived unscathed, as though he had been indestructible, surrendering to all the temptations, weathering many gales. He had panted in sunshine, shivered in the cold; suffered hunger, thirst, debauch; passed through many trials — known all the furies. Old! It seemed to him he was broken at last. And like a man bound treacherously while he sleeps, he woke up fettered by the long chain of disregarded years. He had to take up at once the burden of all his existence, and found it almost too heavy for his strength. Old! He moved his arms, shook his head, felt his limbs. Getting old . . . and then? He looked upon the immortal sea with the awakened and groping perception of its heartless might; he saw it unchanged, black and foaming under the eternal scrutiny of the stares; he heard its impatient voice calling for him out of a pitiless vastness full of unrest, of turmoil, and of terror. He looked afar upon it, and he saw an immensity tormented and blind, moaning and furious, that claimed all the days of his tenacious life, and, when life was over, would claim the worn-out body of its slave.

This was the last of the breeze. It veered quickly, changed to a black south-eastern and blew itself out, giving the ship a famous shove to the northward into the joyous sunshine of the trade. Rapid and white she ran homewards in a straight path, under a blue sky and upon the plain of a blue sea. She carried Singleton’s completed wisdom, Donkin’s delicate susceptibilities, and the conceited folly of us all. The hours of ineffective turmoil were forgotten; the fear and anguish of these dark moments were never mentioned in the glowing peace of fine days. Yet from that time our life seemed to start afresh as though we had died and been resuscitated. All the first part of the voyage, the Indian Ocean on the other side of the Cape, all that was lost in a haze, like an ineradicable suspicion of some previous existence. It had ended — then there were blank hours; a livid blur — and again we lived! Singleton was possessed of sinister truth; Mr. Creighton of a damaged leg; the cook of fame — and shamefully abused the opportunities of his distinction. Donkin had an added grievance. He went about repeating with insistence:— ‘’E said ’e would brain me — did you hear? They hare goin’ to murder hus now for the least little thing.’ We began at last to think it was rather awful. And we were conceited! We boasted our pluck, of our capacity foe work, of our energy. We remembered honourable episodes: our devotion, our indomitable perseverance — and were proud of them as though they had been the outcome of our unaided impulses. We remembered our danger, our toil — and conveniently forgot our horrible scare. We decried our officer — who had done nothing — and listened to the fascinating Donkin, His care for our rights, his disinterested concern for our dignity, were not discouraged by the invariable contumely of our words, by the disdain of our looks. Our contempt for him was unbounded — and we could unbounded — and we could not but listen with interest to that consummate artist. He told us we were good men — a ‘bloomin’ condemned lot of good men.’ ‘ Who thanked us? Who took any notice of our wrongs? Didn’t we lead a ‘dorg’s loife for two poun’ten a month?’ Did we think that miserable pay enough to compensate us for the risk to our lives and for the loss of our clothes? ‘We’ve lost hevery rag!’ he cried. He made us forget that he, at any rate, had lost nothing of his own. The younger men listened, thinking — this ’ere Donkin’s a long-headed chap, though no kind of man, anyhow. The Scandinavians were frightened at his audacities; Wamibo did not understand; and the older seamen thoughtfully nodded their heads making the thin gold earrings glitter in the fleshy lobes of hairy ears. Severe, sun-burnt faces were propped meditatively on tattooed forearms. Veined, brown fists held in their grip the dirty white clay of smoldering pipes. They listened, impenetrable, broad-backed, with bent shoulders, and in grim silence. He talked with ardour, despised and irrefutable. His picturesque and filthy loquacity flowed like a troubled stream from a poisoned source. His beady little eyes danced, glancing right and left, ever on the watch for the approach of an officer. Sometimes Mr. Baker going forward to take a look at the head sheets would roll with his uncouth gait through the sudden stillness of the men; or Mr. Creighton limped along, smooth-faced, youthful, and more stern than ever piercing our short silence with a keen glance of his clear eyes. Behind his back Donkin would begin again darting stealthy, sidelong looks. — ‘‘Ere’s one of’em. Some of yer’as made ’im fast that day. Much thanks yer got for hit. Ain’t ’ee a-drivin’ yer wusse’n hever? . . . Let ’im slip hover-board . . . Vy not? It would ’ave been less trouble. Vy not?’ He advanced confidentially, backed away with great effect; he whispered, he screamed, waved his miserable arms no thicker than pipe-stems — stretched his lean neck — spluttered — squinted. In the pauses of his impassioned orations the wine sighed quietly aloft, the calm sea unheeded murmured in a warning whisper along the ship’s side. We abominated the creature and could not deny the luminous truth of his contentions. It was all so obvious. We were indubitably good men; our deserts were great and our pay small. Through our exertions we had saved the ship and the skipper would get the credit of it. What had he done? we wanted to know. Donkin asked:— ‘What ’ee could do without hus?’ and we could not answer. We were oppressed by the injustice of the world, surprised to perceive how long we had lived under its burden without realising our unfortunate state, annoyed by the uneasy suspicion of our undiscerning stupidity. Donkin assured us it was all our ‘good ’eartedness,’ but we would not be consoled by such shallow sophistry. We were men enough to courageously admit to ourselves our intellectual shortcomings; though from that time we refrained from kicking him, tweaking his nose or from accidentally knocking him about, which last, after we had weathered the Cape, had been rather a popular amusement. Davies ceased to talk at him provokingly about black eyes and flattened noses. Charley, much subdued since the gale, sis not jeer at him. Knowles deferentially and with a crafty air propounded questions such as:— ‘Could we all have the same grub as the mates? Could we all stop ashore till we got it? What would be the next thing to try for if we got that?’ He answered readily with contemptuous certitude; he strutted with assurance in clothes that were much too big for him as though he had tried to disguise himself. These were Jimmy’s clothes most — though he would accept anything from anybody; but nobody, except Jimmy, had anything to spare. His devotion to Jimmy was unbounded. He was for ever dodging in the little cabin, ministering to Jimmy’s wants, humoring his whims, submitting to his exacting peevishness, often laughing with him. Nothing could keep him away from the pious work of visiting the sick, especially when there was some heavy hauling to be done on deck. Mr. Baker had on two occasions jerked him out of there by the scruff of the neck to our inexpressible scandal. Was a sick chap to be left without attendance? Were we to be ill-used for attending a shipmate? — ‘What?’ growled Mr.

Baker, turning menacingly at the mutter, and the whole half-circle like one man stepped back a pace. ‘Set the topmast stunsail. Away aloft Donkin, overhaul the gear.’ ordered the mate inflexibly. ‘Fetch the sail along; bend the down-haul clear. Bear a hand.’ Then, the sail set, he would go slowly aft and stand looking at the compass for a long time, careworn, pensive, and breathing hard as if stifled by the taint o unaccoutable ill-will that pervaded the ship. ‘What’s up amongst them?’ he thought. ‘Can’t make out this hanging back and growling. A good crowd, too, as they go nowadays.’ On deck the men exchanged bitter words, suggested by a silly exasperation against something unjust and irremediable that would not be denied, and would whisper into their ears long after Donkin had ceased speaking. Our little world went on its curved and unswerving path carrying a discontented and aspiring population. They found comfort of a gloomy kind in an interminable and conscientious analysis of their unappreciated worth; and inspired by Donkin’s hopeful doctrines they dreamed enthusiastically of the time when every lonely ship would travel over a serene sea, manned by a wealthy and well-fed crew of satisfied skippers.

It looked as if it would be a long passage. The south-east trades, light and unsteady, were left behind; and then, on the equator and under a low grey sky, the ship, in close heat, floated upon a smooth sea that resembled a sheet of ground glass. Thunder squalls hung on the horizon, circled round the ship, far off and growling angrily, like a troop of wild beasts afraid to charge home. The invisible sun, sweeping above the upright masts, made on the clouds a blurred stain of rayless light, and a similar patch of faded radiance kept pace with it from east to west over the unglittering level of the waters. At night, through the impenetrable darkness of earth and heaven, broad sheets of flame waved noiselessly; and for half a second the becalmed craft stood out with its masts and rigging, with every sail and every rope distinct and black in the centre of a fiery outburst, like a charred ship enclosed in a globe of fire. And, again, for long hours she remained lost in a vast universe of night and silence where gentle sighs wandering here and there like forlorn souls, made the still sails flutter as in sudden fear, and the ripple of a beshrouded ocean whisper its compassion afar — in a voice mournful, immense, and faint . . .

When the lamp was put out, and through the door thrown wide open, Jimmy, turning on his pillow, could see vanishing beyond the straight line of top-gallant rail, the quick, repeated visions of a fabulous world made up of leaping fire and sleeping water. The lightning gleamed in his big sad eyes that seemed in a red flicker to burn themselves out in his black face, and then he would lay blinded and invisible in the midst of an intense darkness. He could hear on the quiet deck soft footfalls, the breathing of some man lounging on the doorstep; the low creak of swaying masts; or the calm voice of the watch-officer reverberating aloft, hard and loud, amongst the unstirring sails. he listened with avidity, taking a rest in the attentive perception of the slightest sound from the fatiguing wanderings of his sleeplessness. He was cheered by the rattling of blocks, reassured by the stir and murmur of the watch, soothed by the slow yawn of some sleepy and weary seaman settling himself deliberately for a snooze on the planks. Life seemed an indestructible thing. It went on in darkness, in sunshine. in sleep; tireless, it hovered affectionately round the imposture of his ready death. It was bright, like the twisted flare of lightning, and more full of surprises than the dark night. It made him safe, and the calm of its overpowering darkness was as precious as its restless and dangerous light.

But in the evening, in the dog-watches, and even far into the first night-watch, a knot of men could always be seen congregated before Jimmy’s cabin. They leaned on each side of the door, peacefully interested and with crossed legs; they stood astride the doorstep discoursing, or sat in silent couples on his sea-chest; while against the bulwark along the spare topmast, three or four in a row stared meditatively, with their simple faces lit up by the projected glare of Jimmy’s lamp. The little place, repainted white, had, in the night, the brilliance of a silver shrine where a black idol, reclining stiffly under a blanket, blinked its weary eyes and received our homage. Donkin officiated. He had the air of a demonstrator showing a phenomenon, a manifestation bizarre, simple, and meritorious, that, to the beholders, should be a profound and an everlasting lesson. ‘Just look at ’im, ’e knows what’s what — never fear!’ he exclaimed now and then, flourishing a hand hard and fleshless like the claw of a snipe. Jimmy, on his back, smiled with reserve and without moving a limb. He affected the languor of extreme weakness, so as to make it manifest to us that our delay in hauling him out from his horrible confinement, and then that night spent on the poop among out selfish neglect of his needs, had ‘done for him.’ He rather liked to talk about it, and of course we were always interested. He spoke spasmodically, in fast rushes with long pauses between, as a tipsy man walks . . . ‘Cook had just given me a pannikin of hot coffee . . . Slapped it down there, on my chest — banged the door to . . . I felt a heavy roll coming; tried to save my coffee, burnt my fingers . . . and fell out of my bunk . . . She went over so quick . . . Water came in through the ventilator . . . I couldn’t move the door to . . . dark as a grave . . . tried to scramble up into the upper berth . . . Rats . . . a rat bit my finger as I got up . . . I could hear him swimming below me . . . I thought you would never come . . . I thought you were all gone overboard . . . of course . . . could hear nothing but the wind . . . Then you came . . . to look for the corpse, I suppose. A little more and . . . ’

‘Man! but ye made a rare lot of noise in here,’ observee Archie, thoughtfully.

‘You chaps kicked up such a confounded row above . . . Enough to scare any one . . . I didn’t know what you were up to . . . Bash in the blamed planks . . . my head . . . Just what a silly, scary gang of fools would do . . . Not much good to me anyhow . . . Just as well . . . drown . . . Pah.’

He groaned, snapped his big white teeth, and gazed with scorn. Belfast lifted a pair of dolorous eyes, with a broken-hearted smile, clenched his fists stealthily; blue-eyed Archie caressed his red whiskers with a hesitating hand;; the boatswain at the door stared a moment, and brusquely went away with a loud guffaw. Wamibo dreamed . . . Donkin felt all over his sterile chin for the few rare hairs, and said, triumphantly, with a sidelong glance at Jimmy:— ‘Look at ’im! Wish I was ’arf as ’ealthy has ’e his — I do.’ He jerked a short thumb over his shoulder towards the after end of the ship. ‘That’s the blooming way to do ’em!’ he yelped, with forced heartiness. Jimmy said:— ‘Don’t be a dam’ fool,’ in a pleasant voice. Knowles, rubbing his shoulder against the doorpost, remarked shrewdly:— ‘We can’t all go an’ be took sick — it would be mutiny.’ — ‘Mutiny — gawn!’ jeered Donkin; ‘there’s no bloomin’ law against bein’ sick.’ — ‘There’s six weeks’ hard for refoosing dooty,’ argued Knowles, ‘I mind I once seed in Cardiff the crew of an overloaded ship — leastways she weren’t overloaded, only a fatherly old gentleman with a white beard and an umbreller came along the quay and talked to the hands. Said as how it was crool hard to be drownded in winter just for the sake of a few pounds more for the owner — he said. Nearly cried over them — he did; and he had a square mainsail coat, and a gaff-topsail hat too — all proper. So they chaps they said they wouldn’t go to be drownded in winter — depending upon that ’ere Plimsoll man to see ’em through the court. They thought to have a bloomin’ lark and two or three days spree. And the beak giv’ ’em six weeks — coss the ship warn’t overloaded. Anyways they made it out in court that she wasn’t. There wasn’t one overloaded ship in Penarth Dock at all. ‘Pears that old coon he was only on papy and allowance from some kind people, under orders to look for overloaded ships, and he couldn’t see no further than the length of his umbreller. Some of us in the boarding-house, where I live when I’m looking for a ship in Cardiff, stood by to duck that old weeping sponger in the dock. We kept a good look out, too — but he topped his boom directly he was outside the court . . . Yes. They got six weeks’ hard . . . ’

They listened, full of curiosity, nodding in the pauses their rough pensive faces. Donkin opened his mouth once or twice, but restrained himself. Jimmy lay still with open eyes and not at all interested. A seaman emitted an opinion that after a verdict of atrocious partiality ‘the bloomin’ beaks go an’ drink at the skipper’s expense.’ Others assented. It was clear, of course, Donkin said:— ‘Well, six weeks hain’t much trouble. You sleep hall night in, reg’lar, in chokey. Do it hon my ’ead.’ ‘You are used to it ainch’ee, Donkin?’ asked somebody. Jimmy condescended to laugh. It cheered every one wonderfully. Knowles, with surprising mental agility, shifted his ground. ‘If we all went sick what would happen to the ship? eh?’ He posed the problem and grinned all round. — ‘Let ’er go to ’ell,’ sneered Donkin. ‘Damn ’er. She ain’t yourn.’ — ‘What? Just let her drift?’ insisted Knowles in a tone of unbelief. — ‘Aye! Drift an’ be blowed,’ affirmed Donkin with fine recklessness. The other did not see it — meditated. — ‘The stores would run out,’ he muttered, ‘and . . . never get anywhere . . . and what about pay-day?’ he added with greater assurance. — ‘Jack likes a good pay-day,’ exclaimed a listener on the doorstep. ‘Aye, because then the girls put one arm round his neck an’ t’other in his pocket, an’ call him ducky. Don’t they, Jack?’ — ‘Jack, you’re a terror with the gals.’ — ‘He takes three of ’em in tow to once, like one of ’em Watkinses two-funnel tugs waddling away with three schooners behind.’ — ‘Jack, you’re a lame scamp.’ — ‘Jack, tell us about that one with a blue eye and a black eye. Do’ — ‘There’s plenty of girls with one black eye along the Highway by . . . ‘ — ‘No, that’s a speshul one — come Jack.’ Donkin looked severe and disgusted; Jimmy very bored; a grey-haired sea-dog s hook his head slightly, smiling at the bowl of his pipe, discreetly amused. Knowles turned about bewildered; stammered first at one, then at another. — ‘No! . . . I never! . . . can’t talk sensible sense amidst you . . . Always on the kid.’ He retired bashfully — muttering and pleased. They laughed hooting in the crude light, around Jimmy’s bed, where on a white pillow his hollowed black face moved to and fro restlessly. A puff of wind came, made the flame of the lamp leap, and outside, high up, the sails fluttered, while near by the block of the foresheet struck a ringing blow on the iron bulwark. A voice far off cried, ‘Helm up!’ another, more faint, answered, ‘Hard up, sir!’ They became silent — waiting expectantly. The grey-haired seaman knocked his pipe on the doorstep and stood up. The ship leaned over gently and the sea seemed to wake up, murmuring drowsily. ‘Here’s a little wind comin’,‘said some one very low, Jimmy turned over slowly to face the breeze. The voice in the night cried loud and commanding:— ‘Haul the spanker out.’ The group before the door vanished out of the light. They could be heard tramping aft while they repeated with various intonations:— ‘Spanker out! . . . ’ ‘Out spanker, sir!’ Donkin remained alone with Jimmy. There was a silence. Jimmy opened and shut his lips several times as if swallowing draughts of fresher air; Donkin moved the toes of his bare feet and looked at them thoughtfully.

‘Ain’t you going to give give them a hand with the sail?’ asked Jimmy.

‘No. Hif six ov ’em hain’t ‘nough beef to set that blamed, rotten spanker, they hain’t fit to live,’ answered Donkin in a bored, faraway voice, as though he had been talking from the bottom of a hole. Jimmy considered the conical, fowl-like profile with a queer kind of interest; he was leaning out of his bunk with the calculating, uncertain expression of a man who reflects how best to lay hold of some strange creature that looks as though it could sting or bite. But he said only:— ‘The mate will miss you — and there will be ructions.’

Donkin got up to go. ‘I will do for ’im hon some dark night, see hif I don’t,’ he said over his shoulder.

Jimmy went on quickly:— ‘You’re like a poll-parrot, like a screechin’ poll-parrot.’ Donkin stopped and cocked his head attentively on one side. His big ears stood our, transparent and veined, resembling the thin wings of a bat.

‘Yuss?’ he said, with his back towards Jimmy.

‘Yes! Chatter out all you know — like . . . like a dirty white cockatoo.’

Donkin waited. He could hear the other’s breathing, long and slow; the breathing of a man with a hundredweight or so on the breast-bone. Then he asked calmly:— ‘What do I know?’

‘What? . . . What I tell you . . . not much. What do you want . . . to talk about my health so . . . ’

‘Hit’s a bloomin’ himposyshun. A bloomin’, stinkin’, first-class himposyshun — but hit don’t tyke me hin. Not hit.’

Jimmy kept still. Donkin put his hands in his pockets, and in one slouching stride came up to the bunk.

‘I talk — what’s the hodds. They hain’t men here — sheep they hare. A driven lot of sheep. I ’old you hup . . . Vy not? you’re well hoff.’

‘I am . . . I don’t say anything about that . . . ’

‘Well, Let ’em see hit. Let ’em larn what a man can do. I ham a man. I know hall about yer . . . ‘Jimmy threw himself further away on the pillow; the other stretched out his skinny neck, jerked his bird face down at him as though pecking at the eyes. ‘I ham a man. I’ve seen the hinside of every chokey in the Colonis rather’n give hup my rights . . . ’

‘You are a jail-prop,’ said Jimmy weakly.

‘I ham . . . an’ proud of it too. You! You ’aven’t the bloomin’ nerve — so you hinvented this ’ere dodge . . . ’ He paused, then with marked afterthought accentuated slowly:— ‘Yer ain’t sick — hare yer?’

‘No,’ said Jimmy firmly. ‘Been out of sorts now and again this year,’ he mumbled with a sudden drop in his voice.

Donkin closed one eye, amicable and confidential. He whispered:— ‘Ye ’ave done it afore — aven’tchee?’ Jimmy smiled — then as if unable to hold back he let himself go:— ‘Last ship — yes. I was out of sorts on the passage. See? It was easy. They paid me off in Calcutta, and the skipper made no bones about it either . . . I got my money all right. Laid up fifty-eight days! The fools! O Lord! The fools! Paid right off.’ He laughed spasmodically. Donkin chummed giggling. Then Jimmy coughed violently. ‘I am as well as ever,’ he said, as soon as he could draw breath.

Donkin made a derisive gesture. ‘In course,’ he said profoundly, ‘hany one can see that.’ — ‘They don’t.’ said Jimmy, gasping like a fish. —— ‘They would swallow any yarn,’ affirmed Donkin. — ‘Don’t you let on too much,’ admonished Jimmy in an exhausted voice. — ‘Your little gyme? Eh?’ commented Donkin jovially. Then with sudden disgust: ‘Yer hall for yerself, s’long has ye’re right . . . ’

So charged with egoism James Wait pulled the blanket up to his chin and lay still for awhile. His heavy lips protruded in an everlasting black pout. ‘Why are you so hot on making trouble?’ he asked without much interest.

‘Cos hit’s a bloomin’ shayme. We hare put hon . . . bad food, bad pay . . . I want hus to kick up a bloomin’ row; a blamed ’owling row that would make ’em remember! Knocking people habout . . . brain hus . . . hindeed! Ain’t we men?’ His altruistic indignation blazed. Then he said calmly; — ‘I’ve been a-hairing of yer clothes’ — ‘All right,’ said Jimmy languidly, ‘bring them in.’ — ‘Giv’ us the key of your chest, I’ll put ’em away for yer,’ said Donkin with friendly eagerness. — ‘Bring ’em in, I will put them away myself.’ answered James Wait with severity. Donkin looked down, muttering . . . ‘What d’you say? What d’you say?’ inquired Wait anxiously, — ‘Nothink. The night’s dry, let ’em ’ang out till the morning,’ said Donkin, in a strangely trembling voice, as though restraining laughter or rage. Jimmy seemed satisfied. — ‘Give me a little water for the night in my mug — there,‘he said.

Donkin took a stride over the doorstep. — ‘Git it yerself,’ he replied in a surly tone. ‘You can do it, hunless you hare_sick.’ — ‘Of course I can do it,’ said Wait, ‘only . . . ’ — ‘Well, then, do it.’ said Donkin viciously, ‘if yer can look hafter yer clothes, yer can look hafter yerself.’ He went on deck without a look back.

Jimmy reached out for the mug. Not a drop. He put it back gently with a faint sigh — and closed his eyes. He thought: — That lunatic Belfast will bring me some water if I ask. Fool. I am very thirsty . . . It was very hot in the cabin, and it seemed to turn slowly round, detach itself from the ship, and swing out smoothly into a luminous arid space where a black sun shone, spinning very fast. A place without any water! No water! A policeman with the face of Donkin drank a glass of beer by the side of an empty well, and flew away flapping vigorously. A ship whose mastheads protruded through the sky and could not be seen, was discharging grain, and the wind whirled the dry husks in spirals along the quay of a dock with no water in it. He whirled the dry husks in spirals along with the husks — and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air streamed in carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts . . . No more! There was no more air — and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was in gaol! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key twice, flung a bucket of water over him — Phoo! What for?

He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty man — empty — empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin hook-pot in the other.

‘I have been locking up for the night,’ said the cook, beaming benevolently. ‘Eight-bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea for your night’s drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin sugar, too. Well — it won’t break the ship.’

He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily, ‘How goes it?’ and sat down on the box. — ‘H’m,’ grunted Wait inhospitably. The cook wiped his face with a dirty cotton rag, which, afterwards, he tied around his neck. — ‘That’s how them firemen do in steamboats,’ he said serenely, and much pleased with himself. ‘My work is as heavy as theirs — I’m thinking — and longer hours. did you ever see them down the stokehold? Like fiends they look — firing — firing — firing — down there.’

He pointed his forefinger at the deck. So............