But—just the same, would he really ever get to England alive? And if he did, would he have to go on holding his breath in terror for nine more days? Would the fo’c’sle always keep heaving up—up—up, like this, then down—down—down, as though it were going to sink? “How do yuh like de fog-horn, Wrennie?” Pete, the tough, spit the question up at him from a corner of his mouth. “Hope we don’t run into no ships.” He winked at Tim, the weakling hatter, who took the cue and mourned: “I’m kinda afraid we’re going to, ain’t you, Pete? The mate was telling me he was scared we would.” “Sures’ t’ing you know. Hey, Wrennie, wait till youse have to beat it down-stairs and tie up a bull in a storm. Hully gee! Youse’ll last quick on de game, Birdie!” “Oh, shut up,” snapped Wrennie’s friend Morton. But Morton was seasick; and Pete, not heeding him, outlined other dangers which he was happily sure were threatening them. Wrennie shivered to hear that the “grub ’d git worse.” He writhed under Pete’s loud questions about his loss, in some cattle-pen, of the gray-and-scarlet sweater-jacket which he had proudly and gaily purchased in New York for his work on the ship. And the card-players assured him that his suit-case, which he had intrusted to the Croac ship’s carpenter, would probably be stolen by “Satan.” Satan! Wrennie shuddered still more. For Satan, the gaunt-jawed hook-nosed rail-faced head foreman, diabolically smiling when angry, sardonically sneering when calm, was a lean human whip-lash. Pete sniggered. He dilated upon Satan’s wrath at Wrennie for not “coming across” with ten dollars for a bribe as he, Pete, had done. (He lied, of course. And his words have not been given literally. They were not beautiful words.) McGarver, the straw-boss, would always lie awake to enjoy a good brisk indecent story, but he liked Wrennie’s admiration of him, so, lunging with his bull-like head out of his berth, he snorted: “Hey, you, Pete, it’s time to pound your ear. Cut it out.” Wrennie called down, sternly, “I ain’t no theological student, Pete, and I don’t mind profanity, but I wish you wouldn’t talk like a garbage-scow.” “Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?” Pete bellowed to Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, “Say, Gladys, ain’t you afraid one of them long woids like, t’eological, will turn around and bite you right on the wrist?” “Dry up!” irritatedly snapped a Canadian. “Aw, cut it out, you—,” groaned another. “Shut up,” added McGarver, the straw-boss. “Both of you.” Raging: “Gwan to bed, Pete, or I’ll beat your block clean off. I mean it, see? _Hear me?_”