"--"Ah! sonny, I am ready for my Maker's call... wish
you all were," the other would answer with a benign serenity that was
altogether imbecile and touching. Belfast outside the galley door danced
with vexation. "You holy fool! I don't want you to die," he howled,
looking up with furious, quivering face and tender eyes. "What's the
hurry? You blessed wooden-headed ould heretic, the divvle will have
you soon enough. Think of Us... of Us... of Us!" And he would go away,
stamping, spitting aside, disgusted and worried; while the other,
stepping out, saucepan in hand, hot, begrimed and placid, watched with a
superior, cock-sure smile the back of his "queer little man" reeling in
a rage. They were great friends.
Mr. Baker, lounging over the after-hatch, sniffed the humid night in
the company of the second mate.--"Those West India niggers run fine and
large--some of them... Ough!... Don't they? A fine, big man that, Mr.
Creighton. Feel him on a rope. Hey? Ough! I will take him into my watch,
I think." The second mate, a fair, gentlemanly young fellow, with a
resolute face and a splendid physique, observed quietly that it was
just about what he expected.
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