Why don't you hit me?"
And Mr. Pike was too appalled to strike the creature. He, whose
whole career on the sea had been that of a bucko driver in a
shambles, could not strike this fractured splinter of a man. I swear
that Mr. Pike actually struggled with himself to strike. I saw it.
But he could not.
"Go on to your work," he ordered. "The voyage is young yet,
Mulligan. I'll have you eatin' outa my hand before it's over."
And Mulligan Jacobs's face thrust another inch closer on its twisted
neck, while all his concentrated rage seemed on the verge of bursting
into incandescence. So immense and tremendous was the bitterness
that consumed him that he could find no words to clothe it. All he
could do was to hawk and guttural deep in his throat until I should
not have been surprised had he spat poison in the mate's face.
And Mr. Pike turned on his heel and left the room, beaten, absolutely
beaten.
I can't get it out of my mind. The picture of the mate and the
cripple facing each other keeps leaping up under my eyelids.
Pages:
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170