He felt the line
with his left hand. Close by his right lay a useless gaff. He had
exhausted our third and last tin of sardines for bait, without
effect, and--what was worse--had drained the oil down his throat
impudently, without an offer to share it. Also he had been drinking
salt water--and I had not troubled to restrain him. Farrell I could
hate, but this man was naught. Farrell lay on the bottom-boards at
my feet, breathing stertorously, with his head in what shade Santa's
gown and the side-sheets together afforded. But this fool seemed
intent on baiting the Pacific with a plummet, a hook, and a lump of
salt pork.
"As if this wasn't enough of grisly opera, of a sudden, in my
light-headedness I saw the three men stand up, join hands solemnly in
a sort of cat's cradle fashion, and advance aft, for all the world
like a comic trio, with the after thwart for footlights. They came
to a halt, close behind Grimalson, and--even as though I had ordered
a burlesque--Jarvis cleared his parched throat painfully, very
formally, and spoke across to me. You must picture the three, if you
will, still holding hands while he spoke.
Pages:
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368