All his inside was gone. He felt lighter
than the husks--and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air
streamed in, carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that
resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts.... No more! There was no
more air--and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was
in jail! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key
twice, flung a bucket of water over him--Phoo! What for?
He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty
man--empty--empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was
streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the
cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin
hook-pot in the other.
"I have locked up the galley for the night," said the cook, beaming
benevolently. "Eight bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea
for your night's drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin
sugar, too. Well--it won't break the ship."
He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily,
"How goes it?" and sat down on the box.--"H'm," grunted Wait,
inhospitably.
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