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Conrad, Joseph, 1857-1924

"A Tale Of The Forecastle"

They 'as set me
on, only to turn aginst me. I am the only man 'ere. They clouted me,
kicked me--an' yer laffed--yer black, rotten incumbrance, you! You will
pay fur it. They giv' yer their grub, their water--yer will pay fur it
to me, by Gawd! Who axed me ter 'ave a drink of water? They put their
bloomin' rags on yer that night, an' what did they giv' ter me--a clout
on the bloomin' mouth--blast their... S'elp me!... Yer will pay fur it
with yer money. I'm goin' ter 'ave it in a minyte; as soon has ye're
dead, yer bloomin' useless fraud. That's the man I am. An' ye're a
thing--a bloody thing. Yah--you corpse!" He flung at Jimmy's head the
biscuit he had been all the time clutching hard, but it only grazed, and
striking with a loud crack the bulkhead beyond burst like a hand-grenade
into flying pieces. James Wait, as if wounded mortally, fell back on the
pillow. His lips ceased to move and the rolling eyes became quiet
and stared upwards with an intense and steady persistence. Donkin was
surprised; he sat suddenly on the chest, and looked down, exhausted
and gloomy. After a moment, he began to mutter to himself, "Die, you
beggar--die.


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