His black eyes were maniacal. The line was so accurately
flung by the second mate that it fell across the man's shoulders, and
for several strokes his arms tangled in it ere he could swim clear.
This accomplished, he proceeded to scream some wild harangue and
once, as he uptossed his arms for emphasis, I saw in his hand the
blade of a long knife.
Bells were jangling on the tug as it started to the rescue. I stole
a look up at Captain West. He had walked to the port side of the
poop, where, hands in pockets, he was glancing, now for'ard at the
struggling man, now aft at the tug. He gave no orders, betrayed no
excitement, and appeared, I may well say, the most casual of
spectators.
The creature in the water seemed now engaged in taking off his
clothes. I saw one bare arm, and then the other, appear. In his
struggles he sometimes sank beneath the surface, but always he
emerged, flourishing the knife and screaming his addled harangue. He
even tried to escape the tug by diving and swimming underneath.
I strolled for'ard, and arrived in time to see him hoisted in over
the rail of the Elsinore.
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