That had been a terrible night for the shanghaied man.
Kept awake and at work, kept scrubbing, painting, untangling lines, oiling the engines, driven to the work and kept at it by boot and fist and rope’s end, Tom had finally given way.
When Clem took the deck, at four o’clock, the sight of Tom smote his heart. Yet he drove him relentlessly. An hour later the end had come.
Sobbing, praying, pleading, Tom had crept to him, begging for sleep, begging for release from the torture. Even then Clem had steeled himself, and had renewed his driving, but not for long. He had not the heart.
Tom Saunders had been broken at last—had promised everything and anything, had wept and prayed anew. At six o’clock, Clem had told him to sleep, and he had dropped in a pitiable heap where he stood.
“It’s a mean job,” thought Clem, as he baited the huge hooks on his line. “But he’s had an hour’s rest now, so we’ll try him out. Besides, he can stand a lot more—and it’s necessary. Kill or cure!”
Accordingly, he awakened poor Tom by repeated sluices of water, thrust a rod into his hand, bade him angle for a jewfish, and baited his own line. Somewhat to Clem’s surprise, Tom said nothing whatever, and did not rebel; but he sat on the rail, shivering, and gazed miserably at the water.
A moment later, just as Clem was unreeling his line, he saw Tom start to his feet, and heard the buzz of the automatic drag.
“Got one?” he cried. Tom merely nodded.
A glance showed Clem that the jewfish was running out ahead of the launch, and he leaped to the engines.