. . .
As for Farrell, his eyes watched mine like a dog's.
"Oh, yes, we went through it all! I'll have to tell you about
Grimalson (as shortly as possible, though), because Farrell gets
mixed up in it, hereabouts. Even in their suffering, the three
seamen--Jarvis, Prout, and Webster--had nursed poor Martinez almost
tenderly; and I suppose, amid their mutterings forward, they had
hatched out their form of protest. And it was fit for comic opera--
ghastly comic opera--if you can imagine Lucifer sitting in the
stalls.
"Noon of the third day it was--I count from the time of our losing
the other two boats. We had lowered Martinez overboard about an hour
before, and the seamen should have been preparing our diminutive
ration. (Salt pork boiled in sea-water, if you can imagine it,
Roddy!) I was steering: Santa sat a foot away, staring over the
waters, sometimes bringing her attention back to a line which
Grimalson had cast overboard, trying for a fish. Grimalson lounged
on the after-thwart--facing me, as you might say, and with his back
to the men, but lolling sideways over the gunwale.
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