- end_line
- 13074
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:36.278Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 13020
- text
- close to the light to thread his coarse needle, which trembled in his
withered hands like the needle, in a compass of a Greenland ship near
the Pole. “You ain’t long for the sarvice. I wish I could give you some
o’ the blood in my veins, old man!”
“Ye ain’t got ne’er a teaspoonful to spare,” said Thrummings. “It will
go hard, and I wouldn’t want to do it; but I’m afeard I’ll have the
sewing on ye up afore long!”
“Sew me up? Me dead and you alive, old man?” shrieked Ringrope. “Well,
I’ve he’rd the parson of the old Independence say as how old age was
deceitful; but I never seed it so true afore this blessed night. I’m
sorry for ye, old man—to see you so innocent-like, and Death all the
while turning in and out with you in your hammock, for all the world
like a hammock-mate.”
“You lie! old man,” cried Thrummings, shaking with rage. “It’s _you_
that have Death for a hammock-mate; it’s _you_ that will make a hole in
the shot-locker soon.”
“Take that back!” cried Ringrope, huskily, leaning far over the corpse,
and, needle in hand, menacing his companion with his aguish fist. “Take
that back, or I’ll throttle your lean bag of wind fer ye!”
“Blast ye! old chaps, ain’t ye any more manners than to be fighting
over a dead man?” cried one of the sail-maker’s mates, coming down from
the spar-deck. “Bear a hand!—bear a hand! and get through with that
job!”
“Only one more stitch to take,” muttered Ringrope, creeping near the
face.
“Drop your ‘_palm_,’ then and let Thrummings take it; follow me—the
foot of the main-sail wants mending—must do it afore a breeze springs
up. D’ye hear, old chap! I say, drop your _palm_, and follow me.”
At the reiterated command of his superior, Ringrope rose, and, turning
to his comrade, said, “I take it all back, Thrummings, and I’m sorry
for it, too. But mind ye, take that ’ere last stitch, now; if ye don’t,
there’s no tellin’ the consekenses.”
As the mate and his man departed, I stole up to Thrummings. “Don’t do
it—don’t do it, now, Thrummings—depend on it, it’s wrong!”
“Well, youngster, I’ll try this here one without it for jist this here
once; and if, arter that, he don’t spook me, I’ll be dead agin the last
stitch as long as my name is Thrummings.”
So, without mutilation, the remains were replaced between the guns, the
union jack again thrown over them, and I reseated myself on the
shot-box.
- title
- Chunk 2