When he recovered himself and sat up he was a different man. All the passionate ardour, all the irresistible desire had left him, and he was conscious only of a singing in the head.
"No," he remarked thoughtfully, addressing himself to an iron stanchion, "she ain't no dime novel heroine, she ain't."
CHAPTER VII
THE AGITATOR
It was Sunday morning and those of the crew who were not on watch lay upon the foc'sle head, sat on the for'ad hatch, or still lay snoring in their bunks. A favoured few were lounging round the galley, some peeling potatoes—for which they would receive their reward in due course—and others helping them with good advice. From within the galley came the voice of "Slushy," the cook, bellowing out snatches of hymns intermingled with pungent profanities, each equally sincere.
"There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins,"
he roared. "Get to hell out o' this, you perishin' son of a swab!" he added to a fireman who was making a surreptitious effort to get at the hot water.
"Damn your 'ot water, you pasty-faced dough-walloper!" retorted the fireman.
Then followed a scuffle, more profanities, and the fireman performed an acrobatic feat which landed him in the scuppers.