It was a weird servitude.
It began a week after leaving Bombay and came on us stealthily like any
other great misfortune. Every one had remarked that Jimmy from the first
was very slack at his work; but we thought it simply the outcome of his
philosophy of life. Donkin said:--"You put no more weight on a rope
than a bloody sparrer." He disdained him. Belfast, ready for a fight,
exclaimed provokingly:--"You don't kill yourself, old man!"--"Would
you?" he retorted with extreme, scorn--and Belfast retired. One morning,
as we were washing decks, Mr. Baker called to him:--"Bring your broom
over here, Wait." He strolled languidly.
"Move yourself! Ough!" grunted Mr. Baker; "what's the matter with your
hind legs?" He stopped dead short. He gazed slowly with eyes that bulged
out with an expression audacious and sad.--"It isn't my legs," he said,
"it's my lungs." Everybody listened.--"What's... Ough!... What's wrong
with them?" inquired Mr. Baker. All the watch stood around on the wet
deck, grinning, and with brooms or buckets in their hands. He said
mournfully:--"Going--or gone. Can't you see I'm a dying man? I know
it!" Mr.
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