There
came from forward a confused murmur of voices, laughter--snatches of
song. The cook shook his head, glanced obliquely at Jimmy, and began to
mutter. "Aye. Dance and sing. That's all they think of. I am surprised
that Providence don't get tired.... They forget the day that's sure to
come... but you...."
Jimmy drank a gulp of tea, hurriedly, as though he had stolen it, and
shrank under his blanket, edging away towards the bulkhead. The cook got
up, closed the door, then sat down again and said distinctly:--
"Whenever I poke my galley fire I think of you chaps--swearing,
stealing, lying, and worse--as if there was no such thing as another
world.... Not bad fellows, either, in a way," he conceded, slowly;
then, after a pause of regretful musing, he went on in a resigned
tone:--"Well, well. They will have a hot time of it. Hot! Did I say? The
furnaces of one of them White Star boats ain't nothing to it."
He kept very quiet for a while. There was a great stir in his brain; an
addled vision of bright outlines; an exciting row of rousing songs
and groans of pain. He suffered, enjoyed, admired, approved. He was
delighted, frightened, exalted--as on that evening (the only time in his
life--twenty-seven years ago; he loved to recall the number of years)
when as a young man he had--through keeping bad company--become
intoxicated in an East-end music-hall.
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