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Updated: May 17, 2025
Before the sails were properly secured, the squall struck them; the foremast was snapped off close to the deck; for a time the ship became unmanageable and drifted rapidly towards the land. "Is that a small island that I see on the weather bow, Olly?" said the skipper to his son. "Look, your eyes are better than mine." "Yes, father. It looks like a small one." "Steer for that, Grummidge.
That's just what I expected, Grummidge. Now what I want to know is, d'ye think God will forgive me?" The seaman was perplexed. Such a question had never been put to him before, and he knew not what to answer. After a few moments' consideration, he replied "What you say is true, Swinton. You've bin a bad lot ever since I've know'd ye. I won't go for to deny that.
"You you're not goin' to leave me, are you?" demanded his enemy, somewhat sternly, "I I shall die if you leave me here on the cold ice." An involuntary shudder here bore testimony to the probability of his fear being well grounded. "Swinton," replied Grummidge, going down on one knee, the more conveniently to grasp the unwounded hand of his foe, "you mistake my c'rackter entirely.
Those whom he led also paused and listened as did the sentinels, though they understood no word of what was said. Poor Grummidge had evidently been brought very low, for his once manly voice was weak and his tones were desponding. Never before, perhaps, was prayer offered in a more familiar or less perfunctory manner. "O Lord," he said, "do get us out o' this here scrape somehow!
The thing showed signs of life as the boat drew near. "Starboard! starboard hard!" shouted Little Stubbs, starting up. But the warning came too late. Next moment the boat ran with a thud into a monster cuttlefish. Grummidge seized a boat-hook, shouted, "Stern all!" and hit the creature with all his might, while Stubbs made a wild grasp at a hatchet which lay under one of the thwarts.
"Well, conscience or no conscience, I've resisted it all my life," returned the sick man, "an' it do seem a mean, sneakin' sort o' thing to come to the Almighty at the very last moment, when I can't help myself, an' say, `I'm sorry." "It would be meaner to say `I'm not sorry, wouldn't it?" returned Grummidge.
"Heigho!" exclaimed the latter at the end of a game, as he stretched his arms above his head, "I wonder if we'll ever play draughts in Old England or see our friends again!" "You'll see some of 'em to-night, anyhow, God bless ye, Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, as he flung open the door and sprang in, while his snow-sprinkled comrades came tramp, tramp, in a line behind him!
It was a long and weary journey, for Grummidge found the road rough and the load heavy, but before night he deposited his old enemy in a bunk in the large room of the settlement and then himself sank fainting on the floor not, we need scarcely add, from the effect of sentimental feeling, but because of prolonged severe exertion, coupled with loss of blood.
"Stay here, Jim," said Grummidge, after hastily extracting the shaft. "You couldn't do much with a wound like that. I'll take your place and follow up the men, and you'll take mine here, as nurse to Swinton. We mustn't leave him alone, you know." Eager though Jim Heron was at first for the fray, the loss of blood had reduced his ardour and made him willing to fall in with this proposal.
"Come, come, Dick Swan and Bob Crow," cried Grummidge, in a stern voice; "you stop that. Two liars are too much in this here ship. One is one too many. If you can't keep civil tongues in your heads, we'll pitch you overboard." "You mind your own business," gruffly replied Dick Swan, who was an irascible man and the aggressor.
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