But, then, what kind of men were
we--with our thoughts! Indignation and doubt grappled within us in a
scuffle that trampled upon the finest of our feelings. And we hated him
because of the suspicion; we detested him because of the doubt. We could
not scorn him safely--neither could we pity him without risk to our
dignity. So we hated him and passed him carefully from hand to hand. We
cried, "Got him?"--"Yes. All right. Let go."
And he swung from one enemy to another, showing about as much life as an
old bolster would do. His eyes made two narrow white slits in the black
face. The air escaped through his lips with a noise like the sound
of bellows. We reached the poop ladder at last, and it being a
comparatively safe place, we lay for a moment in an exhausted heap to
rest a little. He began to mutter. We were always incurably anxious to
hear what he had to say. This time he mumbled peevishly, "It took you
some time to come! I began to think the whole smart lot of you had been
washed overboard. What kept you back? Hey? Funk?" We said nothing. With
sighs we started again to drag him up. The secret and ardent desire of
our hearts was the desire to beat him viciously with our fists about
the head; and we handled him as tenderly as though he had been made of
glass.
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