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Conrad, Joseph, 1857-1924

"A Tale Of The Forecastle"

We flew at him
with brutal impatience, we tore the shirt off his back, we tugged at his
ears, we panted over him; and all at once he came away in our hands as
though somebody had let go his legs. With the same movement, without
a pause, we swung him up. His breath whistled, he kicked our upturned
faces, he grasped two pairs of arms above his head, and he squirmed up
with such precipitation that he seemed positively to escape from our
hands like a bladder full of gas. Streaming with perspiration, we
swarmed up the rope, and, coming into the blast of cold wind, gasped
like men plunged into icy water. With burning faces we shivered to the
very marrow of our bones. Never before had the gale seemed to us more
furious, the sea more mad, the sunshine more merciless and mocking, and
the position of the ship more hopeless and appalling. Every movement of
her was ominous of the end of her agony and of the beginning of ours. We
staggered away from the door, and, alarmed by a sudden roll, fell down
in a bunch. It appeared to us that the side of the house was more smooth
than glass and more slippery than ice. There was nothing to hang on to
but a long brass hook used sometimes to keep back an open door.


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