in regaining the poop, a dying man once more. I pointed out his piteous state.
“At least,” I whispered, “you won’t refuse to take him?”
“Will there be anything to take?” said the captain brutally.
Santos advanced leisurely, and puffed his cigarette over the poor wasted and exhausted frame.
“It is for you to decide, captain,” said he cynically; “but this one will make no deeference. Yes, I would take him. It will not be far,” he added, in a tone that was not the less detestable for being lowered.
said he, “this has put me in a fine old fever; but I don’t know when I felt in better fettle. If only they get it under! I’ve not looked like this all the voyage.”
And he admired himself while I dressed in hot haste: a fine young fellow; not at all the natural egotist, but cast for death by the doctors,