Guy that day learned by experience what “hazing” meant, and he found, too, that Flint’s description of this mode of punishment was not in the least exaggerated. Long before night came he was so nearly exhausted that the fear of the rope’s end, with which the second mate constantly threatened him, was the only thing that kept him moving.
It was his watch below from six to eight o’clock, but he was too tired to sleep, and the time was so short that he got very little rest. He was called on deck again at eight o’clock, and kept busy until midnight, for the wind which arose at sunset freshened rapidly, and on several occasions it was found necessary to shorten sail. Of course Guy could lend no assistance in the execution of this work, but he bustled about in response to every order that was issued, and only succeeded in getting himself into trouble by his misdirected activity and zeal.
Once, when he was sent headlong against the rail by a push from an angry sailor, he clung to it for a moment with a half-formed resolution in his mind to jump into the waves which were tossing the vessel so widely about, and put an end to his misery at once, but prudence stepped in in time to prevent him from doing anything rash.
“The voyage can’t last forever,” thought Guy, trying hard to keep up his courage. “We must reach some port at last, and in less than half an hour after we are tied up to the wharf I shall be missing. I am going to desert. I have money enough in my pocket to keep me in food until I can find something to do. I’d rather be a wood-sawyer than a sailor.”
Midnight came at last, and the starboard watch was called. Guy happened to be standing near the heel of the bowsprit as they came up the ladder, and he was astonished to see that every one of them was as white as a sheet. When they reached the deck they all cast suspicious glances back into the forecastle, as if they were afraid that there might be something following them. Beyond a doubt the ghosts had manifested themselves in some way. So thought Guy, and his opinion was confirmed by some whispered words he overheard.
“What is it, mate?” asked Flint of the sailor who was the first to reach the deck. “Your face is as white as a landsman’s Sunday shirt.”
“And maybe your face will be white, too, after you have been down there a few minutes,” answered the man, who was the gray-haired sailor’s crony, and who, like him, had made one voyage in the Santa Maria. “Where’s Upham?”
“Here,” replied the owner of that name. “Have you seen ’em?”
“No; but I’ve heard ’em. He’ll be up directly.”
“He! Who?” asked Flint uneasily.