To begin
with, we nearly lost the steward in the second dog-watch last
evening. Through the slits in the ventilator some man thrust a knife
into the sacks of flour and cut them wide open from top to bottom.
In the dark the flour poured to the deck unobserved.
Of course, the man behind could not see through the screen of empty
sacks, but he took a blind pot-shot at point-blank range when the
steward went by, slip-sloppily dragging the heels of his slippers.
Fortunately it was a miss, but so close a miss was it that his cheek
and neck were burned with powder grains.
At six bells in the first watch came another surprise. Tom Spink
came to me where I stood guard at the for'ard end of the poop. His
voice shook as he spoke.
"For the love of God, sir, they've come," he said.
"Who?" I asked sharply.
"Them," he chattered. "The ones that come aboard off the Horn, sir,
the three drownded sailors. They're there, aft, sir, the three of
'em, standin' in a row by the wheel."
"How did they get there?"
"Bein' warlocks, they flew, sir.
Pages:
548
549
550
551
552
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572