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- 1757
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T03:48:16.150Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 1701
- text
- from some chemical factory, and by repeated snortings tries to get it
out of his nostrils and lungs. This frame of mind barred all desire of
holding further parley with the fellow, even were it but for the purpose
of gaining some enlightenment as to his design in approaching him. And
yet he was not without natural curiosity to see how such a visitor in
the dark would look in broad day.
He espied him the following afternoon in his first dog-watch below, one
of the smokers on that forward part of the upper gun-deck allotted to
the pipe. He recognised him by his general cut and build, more than by
his round freckled face and glassy eyes of pale blue veiled with lashes
all but white. And yet Billy was a bit uncertain whether indeed it were
he--yonder chap about his own age, chatting and laughing in free-hearted
way, leaning against a gun; a genial young fellow enough to look at, and
something of a rattle-brain, to all appearance. Rather chubby, too, for
a sailor, even an afterguardsman. In short, the last man in the world,
one would think, to be overburthened with thoughts, especially those
perilous thoughts that must needs belong to a conspirator in any serious
project, or even to the underling of such a conspirator.
Although Billy was not aware of it, the fellow with a sidelong watchful
glance had perceived Billy first, and then noting that Billy was looking
at him, thereupon nodded a familiar sort of friendly recognition as to
an old acquaintance, without interrupting the talk he was engaged in
with the group of smokers. A day or two afterwards, chancing in the
evening promenade on a gun-deck to pass Billy, he offered a flying word
of good-fellowship, as it were, which by its unexpectedness, and
equivocalness under the circumstances, so embarrassed Billy, that he
knew not how to respond to it, and let it go unnoticed.
Billy was now left more at a loss than before. The ineffectual
speculations into which he was led were so disturbingly alien to him,
that he did his best to smother them. It never entered his mind that
here was a matter which, from its extreme questionableness, it was his
duty as a loyal blue-jacket to report in the proper quarter. And,
probably, had such a step been suggested to him, he would have been
deterred from taking it by the thought, one of novice-magnanimity, that
it would savour overmuch of the dirty work of a tell-tale. He kept the
thing to himself. Yet upon one occasion he could not forbear a little
disburthening himself to the old Dansker, tempted thereto perhaps by the
influence of a balmy night when the ship lay becalmed; the twain, silent
for the most part, sitting together on deck, their heads propped against
the bulwarks. But it was only a partial and anonymous account that Billy
gave, the unfounded scruples above referred to preventing full
disclosure to anybody. Upon hearing Billy’s version, the sage Dansker
seemed to divine more than he was told; and after a little meditation,
during which his wrinkles were pursed as into a point, quite effacing
for the time that quizzing expression his face sometimes wore--‘Didn’t I
say so, Baby Budd?’
‘Say what?’ demanded Billy.
‘Why, _Jemmy Legs_ is _down_ on you.’
‘And what,’ rejoined Billy in amazement, ‘has _Jemmy Legs_ to do with
that cracked afterguardsman?’
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