In the forecastle Swanson was lying in his bunk with the blankets pulled up over his head, sound asleep, and beside him, lying on a bench, was all that remained of a breakfast piece of hardtack, and a large bone, with teethmarks in the gristle.
"Well," thought I, "if he is getting as close to the bone as this, he can't be very sick." I awoke him, saying: "What is the matter with you, Swanson? Why aren't you on deck? This is not your watch below."
He rolled over as if in great agony.
"Mr. Mate, I ban very sick man."
"Where are you sick?"
"I ban sick on this side," pointing to the right side.
"Stick out your tongue. Yes, indeed, you are a very sick man. Can't eat, I suppose." He answered me with a grunt as if in mortal pain.
I went aft and asked the Captain for a few pills. "Give me five."
"Hell, take ten. How is he?"
"I will have him on deck in a few hours, sir."