"--"What?" asked Mr. Baker, looking along the deck into the
faint sheen of frothing water.--"They are a wicked lot," continued the
cook solemnly, but in an unsteady voice, "about as wicked as any ship's
company in this sinful world! Now, I"--he trembled so that he could
hardly speak; his was an exposed place, and in a cotton shirt, a thin
pair of trousers, and with his knees under his nose, he received,
quaking, the flicks of stinging, salt drops; his voice sounded
exhausted--"now. I--any time ... My eldest youngster, Mr. Baker.. a
clever boy... last Sunday on shore before this voyage he wouldn't go to
church, sir. Says I, 'You go and clean yourself, or I'll know the reason
why!' What does he do?... Pond, Mr. Baker--fell into the pond in his
best rig, sir!... Accident?... 'Nothing will save you, fine scholar
though you are!' says I.... Accident!... I whopped him, sir, till
I couldn't lift my arm...." His voice faltered. "I whopped 'im!" he
repeated, rattling his teeth; then, after a while, let out a mournful
sound that was half a groan, half a snore. Mr. Baker shook him by the
shoulders. "Hey! Cook! Hold up, Podmore! Tell me--is there any fresh
water in the galley tank? The ship is lying along less, I think; I would
try to get forward.
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