Story 2--Chapter XVIII.
I don’t care who the man may be, but it is a hard struggle for any one to see two roads open to him, the first leading to life, and the second to a horrible death, and for him to force himself to take the last one. I’m not going to blame Sam, nor I ain’t a-going to blame Bill Smith. It was only natur’s first law, when Sam says to me just one word, and give his head a nod seaward. “Hot!” says he; and he took a header off the ship’s side, and strikes out towards the last boat. Then, “Come along, matey,” says Bill; and he takes his header, and swims arter the boat—and that was two gone. As for Mr Tomtit, he was so taken up with his poor birds, that he didn’t seem to care a bit about hisself, till I goes up to him and says:
“Hadn’t you better try and make the last boat, sir?”
“Make the boat, my man?” he says in a puzzled sort of way. “No; I don’t think I could make a boat.”
“Swim arter it, then,” I says.
“No,” he says mournfully; “I can’t swim a stroke.”
“More shame for you,” I says. And then I felt so savage, that I goes up to the fat passenger as was sitting crying on the deck of course, and I says, says I, giving him a sharp kick:
“Get up,” I says, “will you! You’re always a-crying.”
“O, Mr Roberts,” he says, blubbering like a calf—“O, Mr Roberts, to come to this!”