“You’ll get a kick in the seat of the pants, that’s what you’ll get,” I answered him.
“Got to have money for whiskey—only want whiskey,” he insisted, and he started to sob pathetically.
“You’re drunk, John Henry. Come on and get forrard into your bunk.”
He pulled away from me and demanded through his sobs:
“You going to get Ole Man to give me some more money?”
“He isn’t here, John Henry. Come on and get forrard and turn in,” I coaxed him.
“You get me money for whiskey or I’ll croak.”
His body began to tremble. His lips were blue, his eyes fiery and bloodshot.
“I don’t care if you croak or not,” I answered, for I had heard threats like that before.
“All right, gonna croak. You watch me. I’m gonna croak,” and he started forward. I followed, hoping to get him safely to his bunk. Just beneath the fo’c’s’le head he picked up a long piece of rope that was coiled there on a stanchion.