We were dismayed.
Then illogical Belfast reproached our nigger with great fury. James
Wait, with his elbow on the pillow, choked, gasped out:--"Did I ask
you to bone the dratted thing? Blow your blamed pie. It has made me
worse--you little Irish lunatic, you!" Belfast, with scarlet face and
trembling lips, made a dash at him. Every man in the forecastle rose
with a shout. There was a moment of wild tumult. Some one shrieked
piercingly:--"Easy, Belfast! Easy!..." We expected Belfast to strangle
Wait without more ado. Dust flew. We heard through it the nigger's
cough, metallic and explosive like a gong. Next moment we saw Belfast
hanging over him. He was saying plaintively:--"Don't! Don't, Jimmy!
Don't be like that. An angel couldn't put up with ye--sick as ye are."
He looked round at us from Jimmy's bedside, his comical mouth twitching,
and through tearful eyes; then he tried to put straight the disarranged
blankets. The unceasing whisper of the sea filled the forecastle. Was
James Wait frightened, or touched, or repentant? He lay on his back with
a hand to his side, and as motionless as if his expected visitor
had come at last.
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