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Updated: June 10, 2025
He took out his watch, and sat on the wall with dangling legs. "I must have a word with Piper." The Parson was down the ladder in a flash. The old foretop-man, humming his hymn in the eternal twilight, turned. "Well, sir?" "You've heard, Piper?" "I've hard, sir. And if so be a common seaman might make so bold, there's but one thing for it, and that's the cold steel."
All was dark within the kitchen of the cottage. Spears of white light piercing the gloom told of day without. The cottage was fast as a fortress. Stout planks were nailed across either door. Heavy shutters darkened the windows. Through a loop-hole a stream of light poured in on Nelson's old foretop-man. Horn spectacles hung on his nose. His eyes were down, the silver head erect and drawn back.
"I now remember you myself; you are Bolt, the foretop-man, that ran at Plymouth." "You'd a-run, too, Captain Cuffe, had you been in my place, had the ship been at Jericho." "Enough no impudence, sir. Send for the master-at-arms, Mr. Griffin, and have the fellow ironed: to-morrow we'll look into the affair."
"Sometimes," continued the old foretop-man solemnly, "I have wondered why the Lard saw good to take my legs to Himsalf. Rack'n I knaw now." He reached out a huge hand, gripped the little rifleman and pulled him closer. "There's nawthin cut to waste in this world," he whispered huskily.
I hope you'll find your berth aloft as much to your mind as it used to be. This is Bolt, Captain Cuffe, the foretop-man, who ran from us when last in England, was caught and put in a guard-ship, from which they sent us word he stole a boat and got off with two or three French prisoners, who happened to be there at the moment on some inquiry or other. Don't you remember it all, Mr.
You can sing em a little song, if you know one to keep em quiet." He slid down into the twilight of the kitchen. There only the old foretop-man was to be seen, patient at his post of watch. "Where's Knapp, Piper?" "Why, sir, in the cellar. Wanted to be alone with his trouble, I reck'n. Tarrabul down-earted, the poor lad be."
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