For
many years he had heard himself called "Old Singleton," and had serenely
accepted the qualification, taking it as a tribute of respect due to
a man who through half a century had measured his strength against the
favours and the rages of the sea. He had never given a thought to his
mortal self. He lived unscathed, as though he had been indestructible,
surrendering to all the temptations, weathering many gales. He had
panted in sunshine, shivered in the cold; suffered hunger, thirst,
debauch; passed through many trials--known all the furies. Old! It
seemed to him he was broken at last. And like a man bound treacherously
while he sleeps, he woke up fettered by the long chain of disregarded
years. He had to take up at once the burden of all his existence, and
found it almost too heavy for his strength. Old! He moved his arms,
shook his head, felt his limbs. Getting old... and then? He looked
upon the immortal sea with the awakened and groping perception of
its heartless might; he saw it unchanged, black and foaming under the
eternal scrutiny of the stars; he heard its impatient voice calling
for him out of a pitiless vastness full of unrest, of turmoil, and of
terror.
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