" He waited, made a contemptuous
gesture.--"I have seen rows aboard ship before some of you were born,"
he said, slowly, "for something or nothing; but never for such a
thing."--"The man is dying, I tell ye," repeated Belfast, woefully,
sitting at Singleton's feet.--"And a black fellow, too," went on the old
seaman, "I have seen them die like flies." He stopped, thoughtful, as if
trying to recollect gruesome things, details of horrors, hecatombs of
niggers. They looked at him fascinated. He was old enough to remember
slavers, bloody mutinies, pirates perhaps; who could tell through what
violences and terrors he had lived! What would he say? He said:--"You
can't help him; die he must." He made another pause. His moustache and
beard stirred. He chewed words, mumbled behind tangled white hairs;
incomprehensible and exciting, like an oracle behind a veil....--"Stop
ashore------sick.-------Instead------bringing all this head wind.
Afraid. The sea will have her own.------Die in sight of land. Always so.
They know it------long passage------more days, more dollars.------You----"
He seemed to wake up from a dream. "You can't help yourselves," he
said, austerely, "Skipper's no fool.
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