Singleton lifted his
head. We became mute. The old man, addressing Jimmy, asked:--"Are you
dying?" Thus interrogated, James Wait appeared horribly startled and
confused. We all were startled. Mouths remained open; hearts thumped,
eyes blinked; a dropped tin fork rattled in the dish; a man rose as if
to go out, and stood still. In less than a minute Jimmy pulled himself
together:--"Why? Can't you see I am?" he answered shakily. Singleton
lifted a piece of soaked biscuit ("his teeth"--he declared--"had no edge
on them now") to his lips.--"Well, get on with your dying," he said with
venerable mildness; "don't raise a blamed fuss with us over that job.
We can't help you." Jimmy fell back in his bunk, and for a long time lay
very still wiping the perspiration off his chin. The dinner-tins were
put away quickly. On deck we discussed the incident in whispers. Some
showed a chuckling exultation. Many looked grave. Wamibo, after long
periods of staring dreaminess, attempted abortive smiles; and one of
the young Scandinavians, much tormented by doubt, ventured in the second
dog-watch to approach Singleton (the old man did not encourage us much
to speak to him) and ask sheepishly:--"You think he will die?" Singleton
looked up.
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