"You thing, you twice-laid thing from Port Mahon!" Then came the Cook's "Is that the Dauber there? Why don't you leave them stinking paints alone? They stink the house out, poisoning all the air. Just take them out." "Where to?" "I don't care where. I won't have stinking paint here." From their plates: "That's right; wet paint breeds fever," growled his mates. He took his still wet drawings from the berth And climbed the ladder to the deck-house top; Beneath, the noisy half-deck rung with mirth, For two ship's boys were putting on the strop: One, clambering up to let the skylight drop, Saw him bend down beneath a boat and lay His drawings there, till all were hid away, And stand there silent, leaning on the boat, Watching the constellations rise and burn, Until the beauty took him by the throat, So stately is their glittering overturn; Armies of marching eyes, armies that yearn With banners rising and falling, and passing by Over the empty silence of the sky. The Dauber sighed there looking at the sails, Wind-steadied arches leaning on the night, The high trucks traced on heaven and left no trails; The moonlight made the topsails almost white, The passing sidelight seemed to drip green light. And on the clipper rushed with fire-bright bows; He sighed, "I'll never do 't," and left the house. "Now," said the reefer, "up! Come, Sam; come, Si, Dauber's been hiding something." Up they slid, Treading on naked tiptoe stealthily To grope for treasure at the long-boat skid. "Drawings!" said Sam. "Is this what Dauber hid? Lord! I expected pudding, not this rot. Still, come, we'll have some fun with what we've got." They smeared the paint with turpentine until They could remove with mess-clouts every trace Of quick perception caught by patient skill, And lines that had brought blood into his face. They wiped the pigments off, and did erase, With knives, all sticking clots. When they had done, Under the boat they laid them every one. All he had drawn since first he came to sea, His six weeks' leisure's fruits, they laid them there. They chuckled then to think how mad he'd be Finding his paintings vanished into air. Eight bells were struck, and feet from everywhere Went shuffling aft to muster in the dark; The mate's pipe glowed above, a dim red spark. Names in the darkness passed and voices cried; The red spark glowed and died, the faces seemed As things remembered when a brain has died, To all but high intenseness deeply dreamed. Like hissing spears the fishes' fire streamed, And on the clipper rushed with tossing mast, A bath of flame broke round her as she passed.