And,
beyond the light, Singleton stood in the smoke, monumental, indistinct,
with his head touching the beam; like a statue of heroic size in the
gloom of a crypt.
He stepped forward, impassive and big. The noise subsided like a broken
wave: but Belfast cried once more with uplifted arms:--"The man is
dying I tell ye!" then sat down suddenly on the hatch and took his head
between his hands. All looked at Singleton, gazing upwards from the
deck, staring out of dark corners, or turning their heads with curious
glances. They were expectant and appeased as if that old man, who looked
at no one, had possessed the secret of their uneasy indignations and
desires, a sharper vision, a clearer knowledge. And indeed standing
there amongst them, he had the uninterested appearance of one who had
seen multitudes of ships, had listened many times to voices such as
theirs, had already seen all that could happen on the wide seas. They
heard his voice rumble in his broad chest as though the words had been
rolling towards them out of a rugged past. "What do you want to do?" he
asked. No one answered. Only Knowles muttered--"Aye, aye," and somebody
said low:--"It's a bloomin' shame.
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