. . . And then the man's face went swimming past me, upturned to the
moonlight, momentarily sinking as I grabbed at his beard which
floated up like seaweed. . . . I grabbed, and missed. God knows what
I should have done had my fingers tangled themselves in that beard,
to get a clutch on it.
"He had slipped himself overboard, to drown quietly. . . . And we
were now five, and Prout was plainly a dying man. (I'd have you
note, Roddy, the order in which the men on board went; for it rather
curiously backs up my theory that there's ever so much more vitality
in what we call brains than in what we call physique.) Martinez was
a weakling, of poor breed: Grimalson, big as bull's beef, had a brain
rotten as a pear: Webster, a docile fellow, was strong as Hercules
and surprisingly stupid. These were gone, in their order.
The two A.B.'s, Jarvis and Prout--canny men, resourceful, full of
seamanship--survived, and we three passengers. What kept Farrell
going, and saved his reason, was a great capacity for sleep.
He slept all the night and most of the day; and though by consequence
he helped us little or nothing, seemed (as he declared himself to be)
constantly dog-tired.
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