"You go to hell," snapped Wrennie, and Tim looked much more
respectful.
But Wrennie lost this credit before they had finished feeding
out the hay, for he grew too dizzy to resent Tim's remarks.
Straining to pitch forkfuls into the pens while the boat rolled,
slopping along the wet gangway, down by the bunkers of coal,
where the heat seemed a close-wound choking shroud and the
darkness was made only a little pale by light coming through
dust-caked port-holes, he sneezed and coughed and grunted till
he was exhausted. The floating bits of hay-dust were a thousand
impish hands with poisoned nails scratching at the roof of his
mouth. His skin prickled all over. He constantly discovered
new and aching muscles. But he wabbled on until he finished the
work, fifteen minutes after Tim had given out.
He crawled up to the main deck and huddled in the shelter of a
pile of hay-bales where Pete was declaring to Tim and the rest
that Satan "couldn't never get nothing on him."
Morton broke into Pete's publicity with the question, "Say, is
it straight what they say, Pete, that you're the guy that owns
the Leyland Line and that's why you know so much more than the
rest of us poor lollops? Watson, the needle, quick!" [Applause
and laughter.
Pages:
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98