He looked
with a dreamy and puzzled stare, as though he could not distinguish
the still men from their restless shadows. There were awestruck
exclamations:--"Hallo, hallo"... "How does it look outside now,
Singleton?" Those who sat on the hatch lifted their eyes in silence, and
the next oldest seaman in the ship (those two understood one another,
though they hardly exchanged three words in a day) gazed up at his
friend attentively for a moment, then taking a short clay pipe out of
his mouth, offered it without a word. Singleton put out his arm towards
it, missed, staggered, and suddenly fell forward, crashing down, stiff
and headlong like an uprooted tree. There was a swift rush. Men pushed,
crying:--"He's done!"... "Turn him over!"... "Stand clear there!" Under
a crowd of startled faces bending over him he lay on his back, staring
upwards in a continuous and intolerable manner. In the breathless
silence of a general consternation, he said in a grating murmur:--"I am
all right," and clutched with his hands. They helped him up. He mumbled
despondently:--"I am getting old... old."--"Not you," cried Belfast,
with ready tact.
Pages:
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160