The boatswain, climbing up with marlinspikes and bunches of spunyarn
rovings, or kneeling on the yard and ready to take a turn with the
midship-stop, had acute and fleeting visions of his old woman and the
youngsters in a moorland village. Mr. Baker, feeling very weak, tottered
here and there, grunting and inflexible, like a man of iron. He waylaid
those who, coming from aloft, stood gasping for breath. He ordered,
encouraged, scolded. "Now then--to the main topsail now! Tally on to
that gantline. Don't stand about there!"--"Is there no rest for us?"
muttered voices. He spun round fiercely, with a sinking heart.--"No! No
rest till the work is done. Work till you drop. That's what you're here
for." A bowed seaman at his elbow gave a short laugh.--"Do or die,"
he croaked bitterly, then spat into his broad palms, swung up his long
arms, and grasping the rope high above his head sent out a mournful,
wailing cry for a pull all together. A sea boarded the quarter-deck
and sent the whole lot sprawling to leeward. Caps, handspikes floated.
Clenched hands, kicking legs, with here and there a spluttering face,
stuck out of the white hiss of foaming water.
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