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Jacobs, W. W., 1863-1943

"Many Cargoes"

'
"'Speak kind to 'im, sir,' ses the fireman. 'I'll have a try if you
don't mind.' He cleared his throat first, an' then he walks over to Joe
and puts his hand on his shoulder an' ses very soft an' pitiful like:
"'Don't take on, Joe, don't take on, there's many a ugly mug 'ides a
good 'art,'
"Afore he could think o" anything else to say, Joe ups with his fist an'
gives 'im one in the ribs as nearly broke 'em. Then he turns away 'is
'ead an' shivers again, an' the old dazed look come back.
"'Joe,' I ses, shaking him, 'Joe!'
"'Frightened the sea-sarpint!' whispers Joe, staring.
"'Joe,' I ses, 'Joe. You know me, I'm your pal, Bill.'
"'Ay, ay,' ses Joe, coming round a bit.
"'Come away,' I ses, 'come an' git to bed, that's the best place for
you.'
"I took 'im by the sleeve, and he gets up quiet an' obedient and follers
me like a little child. I got 'im straight into 'is bunk, an' arter a
time he fell into a soft slumber, an' I thought the worst had passed,
but I was mistaken. He got up in three hours' time an' seemed all right,
'cept that he walked about as though he was thinking very hard about
something, an' before I could make out what it was he had a fit.
"He was in that fit ten minutes, an' he was no sooner out o' that one
than he was in another.


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