Instead, he said: "I'm sorry, Black old man. I'm a beast and we both know it. I take back all I said; please forget it. And I must give that driver fellow a tot of whisky; I hit him, which was a rotten thing to do, because he can't hit me back, and I, not he, was wrong."
It certainly was a rotten thing to do. Fernie was a big-boned, powerful man, with a fist like a leg of mutton in size. He hardly knew his strength, but many a troublesome seaman could have testified to it in the old liner days.
However, the tot of neat whisky put matters more or less right with the boy.
Black pressed Fernie to have a good square meal, but he wouldn't. He drank half a glass of raw whisky, followed by about a gallon of water. Then he put down his blankets and turned in, his head towards the pile of meat and his feet to the fire. Completely exhausted, he fell asleep immediately.
It had become a habit with Fernie to place his loaded shot-gun by his side when he went to sleep, and he invariably had a large spanner handy. He did not forget to make these preparations now, tired though he was. He made them mechanically.
Black, who remained by the fire, put on his spectacles and wrote up his diary. Then he too put down his blankets, close to where Fernie lay.
He didn't go to sleep at once. In spite of his apology, Fernie's words had left a sting. This had been his worst outbreak so far. He had never used the contemptuous epithet "ex-ink-slinger" before. Because of its truth it hurt.
So Black lay on his back watching the sparks rise from the fire at his feet. He was indeed seeing the world, but he began to doubt whether he had chosen exactly the best parts of it or the most pleasant way of seeing them.
No unkind thought of Fernie ever entered his mind. I think I can safely say this, for his very full diary contains no hint of such. On the contrary, a strong thread of deep admiration and affection for his friend can be traced without a break through every page of that strange book.
Presently there was a slight movement behind the pile of meat. Black turned slowly over on his side and looked. To his great alarm he saw a large lion smelling the meat. He put out his hand and touched Fernie, who woke at once, sat up, and looked. However uncertain the sailor's temper might be, his nerve was still good. He snatched up his gun. As he did so, the lion made a short backward jump and glared at the men, growling. Fernie put the gun to his shoulder and pressed the trigger. There was no report! He had forgotten the broken spring. Why he did not fire the left barrel remains a mystery. Instead, he gripped the gun about the trigger guard with his left hand, pressed the stock firmly to his shoulder, and aimed a sharp blow at the hammer with his spanner. He missed the hammer, but hit his thumb.