By the time the afternoon was half over my arms and back were numb with pain. I had ceased to sweat and every effort was made by super-force of will. We were red-eyed with the labor and the heat; swearing had ceased, and we plugged along doggedly as the damnable Nigger kept up his constant bawling to "Hook her up!" or "Liki! Liki!" (meaning "the same").
Frenchy, who was under the hatch, suddenly brought us to our senses. "Rain, boys! Rain!" he shouted.
In our torture we had not noticed how dark it was getting, and when the first large cool drops pattered down on the 'tween deck hatches covering the cargo in the hold, we knew that relief was at hand. A minute more and the rain came down in tropical torrents while we struggled to get the big strongback into place, the hatch covers on, and the tarpaulin spread. Our black tormentors had fled to cover under a nearby shed, and the donkey engine crew were drawing the fire from beneath their boiler. Nigger, too, had disappeared, for Scouse came up determined to take a fall out of "that black —— ——."
To say that we were thankful for the rain is mild; we were saved by it, nothing less, and as we went to the fo'c'sle that night we were as badly beaten a lot of men as ever cumbered the port of Honolulu.
"Say, Smith!" yelled Joe, shouting through the partition that separated the fo'c'sles.
"Well, what do you want?"
"You was right when you said sumthin' about me workin' here."
"I told you you'd sweat, didn't I?" shouted back Old Smith.
"Say, Smith," in a chastened tone.
"Yes?"