We were so genuinely emptied, not so much by the cricket as by the
two years of fermentation, that not one of us stirred toward breakfast,
in fact not one of us moved from the listless attitude in which day
found him, until after nine o'clock. Then we pulled ourselves together
and cooked coffee and salt horse. As a significant fact, the Nigger
left the dishes unwashed, and no one cared.
Handy Solomon finally shook himself and arose.
"I'm sick of this," said he, "I'm goin' seal-hunting."
They arose without a word. They were sick of it, too, sick to death.
We were a silent, gloomy crew indeed as we thrust the surf boat
afloat, clambered in, and shipped the oars. No one spoke a word; no
one had a comment to make, even when we saw the rookery slide into
the water while we were still fifty yards from the beach. We pulled
back slowly along the coast. Beyond the rock we made out the entrance
to the dry cave.
"There's seal in there," cried Handy Solomon, "lots of 'em!"
He thrust the rudder over, and we headed for the cave. No one
expressed an opinion.
As it was again high tide, we rowed in to the steep shore inside the
cave's mouth and beached the boat. The place was full of seals; we
could hear them bellowing.
"Two of you stand here," shouted Handy Solomon, "and take them as they
go out. We'll go in and scare 'em down to you."
"They'll run over us," screamed Pulz.
"No, they won't. You can dodge up the sides when they go by."
This was indeed well possible, so we gripped our clubs and ventured
into the darkness.
We advanced four abreast, for the cave was wide enough for that. As
we penetrated, the bellowing and barking became more deafening.
It was impossible to see anything, although we _felt_ an
indistinguishable tumbling mass receding before our footsteps.
Thrackles swore violently as he stumbled over a laggard. With uncanny
abruptness the black wall of darkness in front of us was alive with
fiery eyeballs. The seals had reached the end of the cave and had
turned toward us. We, too, stopped, a little uncertain as to how to
proceed.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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