There was a sense of a contest in the air. We felt the
inward strain of men watching a wrestling bout. At last Jimmy with
perceptible apprehension turned his head on the pillow.--"Good evening,"
he said in a conciliating tone.--"H'm," answered the old seaman,
grumpily. For a moment longer he looked at Jimmy with severe fixity,
then suddenly went away. It was a long time before any one spoke in
the little cabin, though we all breathed more freely as men do after an
escape from some dangerous situation. We all knew the old man's ideas
about Jimmy, and nobody dared to combat them. They were unsettling, they
caused pain; and, what was worse, they might have been true for all
we knew. Only once did he condescend to explain them fully, but the
impression was lasting. He said that Jimmy was the cause of head winds.
Mortally sick men--he maintained--linger till the first sight of land,
and then die; and Jimmy knew that the very first land would draw his
life from him. It is so in every ship. Didn't we know it? He asked
us with austere contempt: what did we know? What would we doubt next?
Jimmy's desire encouraged by us and aided by Wamibo's (he was a
Finn--wasn't he? Very well!) by Wamibo's spells delayed the ship in the
open sea.
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