The little grey man made an
effort to raise his voice above a dull mutter, and fixed his chief mate
with a cold gaze, piercing like a dart.--"Get sail on the ship," he
said, speaking authoritatively and with an inflexible snap of his thin
lips. "Get sail on her as soon as you can. This is a fair wind. At once,
sir--Don't give the men time to feel themselves. They will get done up
and stiff, and we will never... We must get her along now"... He reeled
to a long heavy roll; the rail dipped into the glancing, hissing water.
He caught a shroud, swung helplessly against the mate... "now we have a
fair wind at last------Make------sail." His head rolled from shoulder to
shoulder. His eyelids began to beat rapidly. "And the pumps------pumps,
Mr. Baker." He peered as though the face within a foot of his eyes
had been half a mile off. "Keep the men on the move to------to get her
along," he mumbled in a drowsy tone, like a man going off into a doze.
He pulled himself together suddenly. "Mustn't stand. Won't do," he said
with a painful attempt at a smile. He let go his hold, and, propelled
by the dip of the ship, ran aft unwillingly, with small steps, till he
brought up against the binnacle stand.
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