Pike clawed the
Elsinore off the lee-shore of the Horn; and Boney the Splinter,
following, washed overboard to drown as we cleared the sea-gashing
rock-tooth where the southern tip of the continent bit into the
storm-wrath of the Antarctic; and the big-footed, clumsy youth of a
Finnish carpenter, hove overside as a Jonah by his fellows who
believed that Finns control the winds; and Mike Cipriani and Bill
Quigley, Rome and Ireland, shot down on the poop and flung overboard
alive by Mr. Pike, still alive and clinging to the log-line, cut
adrift by the steward to be eaten alive by great-beaked albatrosses,
mollyhawks, and sooty-plumaged Cape hens; Steve Roberts, one-time
cowboy, shot by me as he tried to shoot me; Herman Lunkenheimer, his
throat cut before all of us by the hound Bombini as Kid Twist
stretched the throat taut from behind; the two mates, Mr. Pike and
Mr. Mellaire, mutually destroying each other in what must have been
an unwitnessed epic combat; Ditman Olansen, speared by Wada as he
charged Berserk at the head of the mutineers in the attempt to rush
the poop; and last, Henry, the cadet of the perishing house, shot at
the wheel, from the ventilator-shaft, in the course of his day's
work.
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