But the old villain was not to be trusted; twas but a snort and a stir with him down here, then a hideous black cloud flying at your ship, and hail and wind to which the stoutest must give his back.
So this evening we flapped slowly onward under topgallant sails and courses, and the long naked poles of the royal masts made a wreck of the fabric to the eye up aloft as they swung the dim buttons of their trucks under the stars.
It was seven o’clock. I had an hour to smoke my pipe in before my watch came round. I stood on the brig’s quarter, leaning upon the bulwark rail. The sea ran in thick, noiseless folds like black grease, and I hung smoking and hearkening to a queer respiration out upon the water—the noise of the blowing of grampuses sunk in the blackness. Presently my name was pronounced. I turned, and by the light in the companion way beheld the figure of the boy Jimmy.
“What is it?”
“The captain wants to see you, master.”
I knocked the fire out of my pipe.
“What is wrong?” said I, in a voice of awe, for even as the lad had called, my thoughts were busy with the dying man, and my heart heavy with sadness.
“The captain’s very bad to-night, master.”
This was the third day Greaves had kept his berth without attempting or expressing a wish to leave it. During these days he had been more than usually rambling and incoherent, insomuch that my visits had been brief because there was nothing to be said. I had looked in upon him merely to satisfy myself on his condition. I knew not how I should find him now, and sat me down on a chest beside his bunk. Galloon lay on the deck. The lamp gave a strong light; Greaves saw me and I him very plain. There was an intelligence in his looks that had been wanting—his countenance was knitted into its old expression of mind, as though by an effort of the faculties.
“D’ye know, Fielding, I fear that I am very ill?” said he in a weak voice.