“Stop yer blitherin', an' go an' get the tureen cover,” Behane commanded Johnny Sheehan, at the same time dealing him a heavy cuff alongside the head.
The boy, who was scarcely more than a child, fetched the cover. He crawled and tottered along the deck, so weak was he from hunger. The tears still ran down his cheeks. Behane took the cover from him, at the same time administering another cuff.
O'Brien took off his coat and bared his right arm. His under lip still trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain's penknife was opened and passed to Gorman.
“Mahoney, tell me mother what happened to me, if ever ye get back,” O'Brien requested.
Mahoney nodded.
“'Tis black murder, black an' damned,” he said. “The b'y's flesh'll do none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye'll not profit by it, none iv yez.”
“Get ready,” the captain ordered. “You, Sullivan, hold the cover—that's it—close up. Spill nothing. It's precious stuff.”
Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He was weak. Besides, his hand was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the knife. The three boys were crouched apart, in a huddle, crying and sobbing. With the exception of Mahoney, the men were gathered about the victim, craning their necks to see.
“Be a man, Gorman,” the captain cautioned.
The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back and forth with the blade on O'Brien's wrist. The veins were severed. Sullivan held the tureen cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped wide, but no ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veins were dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures swayed in unison with each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned fixedly upon that inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a creature that was alive.