Perhaps he was? Doubt survived Jimmy; and, like a community of banded
criminals disintegrated by a touch of grace, we were profoundly
scandalised with each other. Men spoke unkindly to their best chums.
Others refused to speak at all. Singleton only was not surprised.
"Dead--is he? Of course," he said, pointing at the island right abeam:
for the calm still held the ship spell-bound within sight of Flores.
Dead--of course. _He_ wasn't surprised. Here was the land, and there,
on the fore-hatch and waiting for the sailmaker--there was that corpse.
Cause and effect. And for the first time that voyage, the old seaman
became quite cheery and garrulous, explaining and illustrating from the
stores of experience how, in sickness, the sight of an island (even a
very small one) is generally more fatal than the view of a continent.
But he couldn't explain why.
Jimmy was to be buried at five, and it was a long day till then--a day
of mental disquiet and even of physical disturbance. We took no interest
in our work and, very properly, were rebuked for it. This, in our
constant state of hungry irritation, was exasperating. Donkin worked
with his brow bound in a dirty rag, and looked so ghastly that Mr.
Pages:
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246