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Conrad, Joseph, 1857-1924

"A Tale Of The Forecastle"

We only heard
the deep hum and moan of the wind above us, the mingled roar and hiss
of the seas. The ship, as if overcome with despair, wallowed lifelessly,
and our heads swam with that unnatural motion. Belfast clamoured:--"For
the love of God, Jimmy, where are ye?... Knock! Jimmy darlint!... Knock!
You bloody black beast! Knock!" He was as quiet as a dead man inside
a grave; and, like men standing above a grave, we were on the verge
of tears--but with vexation, the strain, the fatigue; with the great
longing to be done with it, to get away, and lie down to rest somewhere
where we could see our danger and breathe. Archie shouted:--"Gi'e me
room!" We crouched behind him, guarding our heads, and he struck time
after time in the joint of planks. They cracked. Suddenly the crowbar
went halfway in through a splintered oblong hole. It must have missed
Jimmy's head by less than an inch. Archie withdrew it quickly, and that
infamous nigger rushed at the hole, put his lips to it, and whispered
"Help" in an almost extinct voice; he pressed his head to it, trying
madly to get out through that opening one inch wide and three inches
long.


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