The
boatswain put his head through the door. "Relieve the wheel, one of
you"--he shouted inside--"it's six. Blamme if that old Singleton hasn't
been there more'n thirty hours. You are a fine lot." He slammed the door
again. "Mate's watch on deck," said some one. "Hey, Donkin, it's your
relief!" shouted three or four together. He had crawled into an empty
bunk and on wet planks lay still. "Donkin, your wheel." He made no
sound. "Donkin's dead," guffawed some one, "Sell 'is bloomin' clothes,"
shouted another. "Donkin, if ye don't go to the bloomin' wheel they will
sell your clothes--d'ye hear?" jeered a third. He groaned from his
dark hole. He complained about pains in all his bones, he whimpered
pitifully. "He won't go," exclaimed a contemptuous voice, "your turn,
Davis." The young seaman rose painfully, squaring his shoulders. Donkin
stuck his head out, and it appeared in the yellow light, fragile
and ghastly. "I will giv' yer a pound of tobaccer," he whined in a
conciliating voice, "so soon as I draw it from aft. I will--s'elp me..."
Davis swung his arm backhanded and the head vanished. "I'll go," he
said, "but you will pay for it.
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