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Through the shattering roar of the guns, the rendings of planks, the scream of round-shot, came the voices of men, dim-seen. Jokes, blasphemies, prayers, groans, issued in nightmare medley from that death-fog. "Chri', kill me! My God, I sweats! Pore old Jake's got it!" On mid-deck a shadow was pirouetting madly. Suddenly it collapsed; and the boy saw it ended at the neck.
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