“You lie! old man,” cried Thrummings, shaking with rage. “It’s you that have Death for a hammock-mate; it’s you that will make a hole in the shot-locker soon.”
“Take that back!” cried Ringrope, huskily, leaning far over the corpse, and, needle in hand, menacing his companion with his aguish fist. “Take that back, or I’ll throttle your lean bag of wind fer ye!”
“Blast ye! old chaps, ain’t ye any more manners than to be fighting over a dead man?” cried one of the sail-maker’s mates, coming down from the spar-deck. “Bear a hand!—bear a hand! and get through with that job!”
“Only one more stitch to take,” muttered Ringrope, creeping near the face.
“Drop your ‘palm,’ then and let Thrummings take it; follow me—the foot of the main-sail wants mending—must do it afore a breeze springs up. D’ye hear, old chap! I say, drop your palm, and follow me.”
At the reiterated command of his superior, Ringrope rose, and, turning to his comrade, said, “I take it all back, Thrummings, and I’m sorry for it, too. But mind ye, take that ’ere last stitch, now; if ye don’t, there’s no tellin’ the consekenses.”
As the mate and his man departed, I stole up to Thrummings. “Don’t do it—don’t do it, now, Thrummings—depend on it, it’s wrong!”
“Well, youngster, I’ll try this here one without it for jist this here once; and if, arter that, he don’t spook me, I’ll be dead agin the last stitch as long as my name is Thrummings.”
So, without mutilation, the remains were replaced between the guns, the union jack again thrown over them, and I reseated myself on the shot-box.