“Some of you knows something of it,” says the cap to old Jam, as we called him for short.
“Captain Sahib no got god of his own at home that he want black fellow’s,” says old Jam very grandly, but making a great salaam a’most down to the deck.
But the cap only grumbled out something, and went off, for he didn’t want to offend the men.
One day we had a sad upset—one as gave our chaps the horrors, and made them restless to get out of the place, and worse, for after that the men were always looking out for the crocodiles, and bodies, and things that came down the great stream, while now everything they saw floating, if it was only a lump of rotten rushes or a bit of tree-trunk, got to be called something horrid. Then the chaps got tired of its being so hot, and discontented at having not enough to do, I s’pose, for a ship’s crew never seems so happy as when the men are full swing an’ at the work.
Well, it so happened that in two places the cap had had little swing stages slung over the side for the men who were touching up the ship’s ribs with a new streak of paint; and there the chaps were dabbing away very coolly as to the way they worked, but very hotly as to the weather, for the sun comes down there a scorcher when there’s no breeze on. I was very busy myself trying to find a cool place somewhere; and not getting it, when the man over the bulwarks gives a hail, and I goes to see what he wanted, which it was more paint, because he didn’t want to come up the side, and get it himself. So I takes the pot from him, and gets it half filled with colour, and goes back to the side all on the dawdle-and-crawl system just like the other chaps on deck.
“Now then,” I says, “lay hold;” but my gentleman didn’t move, for there he was, squatted down and smoking his pipe; when, finding it comforting, he wouldn’t move.
“I say,” he says, looking up, “just see if them lashings is all right; for, if I was to go down here, it’s my idee as I shouldn’t come up again for the crockydiles, and I don’t kear about giving up the number of my mess jest yet; so look out.”
“Well, lay hold of this pot,” says I, reaching down to him as far as I could.
“Wait a minute,” he says, when he began to groan himself up, and next moment he would have reached what I was holding to him, when I heard something give, a sort of crack; then there was a shriek and a loud splash, and I saw the poor fellow’s horror-stricken face for an instant as he disappeared beneath the water.
“Man overboard!” I shouted, dropping the paint, and running to the rope which held the dinghy; when sliding down I was in her in a moment, and shoving along towards where the poor chap went down. First I looked one way, then another, and kept paddling about expecting that I should see his head come up, while now at the sides half the crew were looking over, for they had forgotten all about feeling tired or lazy in their anxiety to be of use.