e, sorr. We ain't so bad," protested Belfast, in a voice shaken
by shivers; "we ain't... brr..."--"Again," shouted the mate, grabbing at
the shadowy form; "again!... Why, you're in your shirt! What have you
done?"--"I've put my oilskin and jacket over that half-dead nayggur--and
he says he chokes," said Belfast, complainingly.--"You wouldn't call
me nigger if I wasn't half dead, you Irish beggar!" boomed James Wait,
vigorously.--"You... brrr... You wouldn't be white if you were ever so
well... I will fight you... brrrr... in fine weather... brrr ... with
one hand tied behind my back... brrrrrr..."--"I don't want your rags--I
want air," gasped out the other faintly, as if suddenly exhausted.

The sprays swept over whistling and pattering. Men disturbed in their
peaceful torpor by the pain of quarrelsome shouts, moaned, muttering
curses. Mr. Baker crawled off a little way to leeward where a water-cask
loomed up big, with something white against it. "Is it you, Podmore?"
asked Mr. Baker, He had to repeat the question twice before the cook
turned, coughing feebly.--"Yes, sir. I've been praying in my mind for a
quick deliverance; for I am prepared for any call.... I------"--"Look here,
cook," interrupted Mr. Baker, "the men are perishing with cold."--"Cold!"
said the cook, mournfully; "they will be warm enough before
long."--"What?" asked Mr. Baker, looking along the deck into the faint
sheen of frothing water.--"They are a wicked lot," continued the cook
solemnly, but in an unsteady voice, "about as wicked as any ship's
company in this sinful world! Now, I"--he trembled so that he could
hardly speak; his was an exposed place, and in a cotton shirt, a thin
pair of trousers, and with his knees under his nose, he received,
quaking, the flicks of stinging, salt drops; his voice sounded
exhausted--"now. I--any time ... My eldest youngster, Mr. Baker.. a clever
boy... last Sunday on shore before this voyage he wouldn't go to church,
sir. Says I, 'You go and clean yourself, or I'll know the reason why!'
What does he do?... Pond, Mr. Baker--fell into the pond in his best rig,
sir!... Accident?... 'Nothing will save you, fine scholar though you
are!' says I.... Accident!... I whopped him, sir, till I couldn't lift
my arm...." His voice faltered. "I whopped 'im!" he repeated, rattling
his teeth; then, after a while, let out a mournful sound that was half
a groan, half a snore. Mr. Baker shook him by the shoulders. "Hey! Cook!
Hold up,