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Then his expression altered suddenly from doubt, and something else more indefinite, to a pretty grim look of determination. He spoke. "I'm blimed," he said, "ef I don't tike er piy-diy out of 'er, shadders or no shadders." I looked at him, with astonishment. "What's it got to do with your getting a pay-day out of her?" I asked. He nodded his head, with a sort of stolid resolution.
"Are you all clear there?" he shouted again. The answer came, unintelligible and unexpected. It ran like this: "Blarst yer ... I've styed ... Did yer think ... drive ... bl y piy-diy." And then there was a sudden silence. I stared up at the dim sail, astonished. "He's dotty!" said Stubbins, who had been told to come off the look-out and give us a pull.
What the hell are you doing?" "Coming, Sir!" I sung out. "Shall I stay?" I asked definitely. "Garn!" he said. "Don't yer fret yerself. I'll tike er bloomin' piy-diy out of 'er. Blarst 'em. I ain't funky of 'em." I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living. I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.
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