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I
felt
myself
slipping
into
unconsciousness
,
and
tried
with
all
the
power
of
my
will
to
fight
above
the
suffocating
blankness
and
darkness
that
was
rising
around
me
.
A
little
later
I
heard
the
stroke
of
oars
,
growing
nearer
and
nearer
,
and
the
calls
of
a
man
.
When
he
was
very
near
I
heard
him
crying
,
in
vexed
fashion
,
"
Why
in
hell
do
n't
you
sing
out
?
"
This
meant
me
,
I
thought
,
and
then
the
blankness
and
darkness
rose
over
me
.
I
seemed
swinging
in
a
mighty
rhythm
through
orbit
vastness
.
Sparkling
points
of
light
spluttered
and
shot
past
me
.
They
were
stars
,
I
knew
,
and
flaring
comets
,
that
peopled
my
flight
among
the
suns
.
As
I
reached
the
limit
of
my
swing
and
prepared
to
rush
back
on
the
counter
swing
,
a
great
gong
struck
and
thundered
.
For
an
immeasurable
period
,
lapped
in
the
rippling
of
placid
centuries
,
I
enjoyed
and
pondered
my
tremendous
flight
.
But
a
change
came
over
the
face
of
the
dream
,
for
a
dream
I
told
myself
it
must
be
.
My
rhythm
grew
shorter
and
shorter
.
I
was
jerked
from
swing
to
counter
swing
with
irritating
haste
.
I
could
scarcely
catch
my
breath
,
so
fiercely
was
I
impelled
through
the
heavens
.
The
gong
thundered
more
frequently
and
more
furiously
.
I
grew
to
await
it
with
a
nameless
dread
.
Then
it
seemed
as
though
I
were
being
dragged
over
rasping
sands
,
white
and
hot
in
the
sun
.
This
gave
place
to
a
sense
of
intolerable
anguish
.
My
skin
was
scorching
in
the
torment
of
fire
.
The
gong
clanged
and
knelled
.
The
sparkling
points
of
light
flashed
past
me
in
an
interminable
stream
,
as
though
the
whole
sidereal
system
were
dropping
into
the
void
.
I
gasped
,
caught
my
breath
painfully
,
and
opened
my
eyes
.
Two
men
were
kneeling
beside
me
,
working
over
me
.
My
mighty
rhythm
was
the
lift
and
forward
plunge
of
a
ship
on
the
sea
.
The
terrific
gong
was
a
frying-pan
,
hanging
on
the
wall
,
that
rattled
and
clattered
with
each
leap
of
the
ship
.
The
rasping
,
scorching
sands
were
a
man
's
hard
hands
chafing
my
naked
chest
.
I
squirmed
under
the
pain
of
it
,
and
half
lifted
my
head
.
My
chest
was
raw
and
red
,
and
I
could
see
tiny
blood
globules
starting
through
the
torn
and
inflamed
cuticle
.
"
That
'll
do
,
Yonson
,
"
one
of
the
men
said
.
"
Car
n't
yer
see
you
've
bloomin
'
well
rubbed
all
the
gent
's
skin
orf
?
"
The
man
addressed
as
Yonson
,
a
man
of
the
heavy
Scandinavian
type
,
ceased
chafing
me
,
and
arose
awkwardly
to
his
feet
.
The
man
who
had
spoken
to
him
was
clearly
a
Cockney
,
with
the
clean
lines
and
weakly
pretty
,
almost
effeminate
,
face
of
the
man
who
has
absorbed
the
sound
of
Bow
Bells
with
his
mother
's
milk
.
A
draggled
muslin
cap
on
his
head
and
a
dirty
gunny-sack
about
his
slim
hips
proclaimed
him
cook
of
the
decidedly
dirty
ship
's
galley
in
which
I
found
myself
.
"
An
'
'
ow
yer
feelin
'
now
,
sir
?
"
he
asked
,
with
the
subservient
smirk
which
comes
only
of
generations
of
tip-seeking
ancestors
.
For
reply
,
I
twisted
weakly
into
a
sitting
posture
,
and
was
helped
by
Yonson
to
my
feet
.
The
rattle
and
bang
of
the
frying-pan
was
grating
horribly
on
my
nerves
.
I
could
not
collect
my
thoughts
.
Clutching
the
woodwork
of
the
galley
for
support
--
and
I
confess
the
grease
with
which
it
was
scummed
put
my
teeth
on
edge
--
I
reached
across
a
hot
cooking-range
to
the
offending
utensil
,
unhooked
it
,
and
wedged
it
securely
into
the
coal-box
.
The
cook
grinned
at
my
exhibition
of
nerves
,
and
thrust
into
my
hand
a
steaming
mug
with
an
"
'
Ere
,
this
'll
do
yer
good
.
"
It
was
a
nauseous
mess
--
ship
's
coffee
--
but
the
heat
of
it
was
revivifying
.
Between
gulps
of
the
molten
stuff
I
glanced
down
at
my
raw
and
bleeding
chest
and
turned
to
the
Scandinavian
.
"
Thank
you
,
Mr.
Yonson
,
"
I
said
;
"
but
do
n't
you
think
your
measures
were
rather
heroic
?
"
It
was
because
he
understood
the
reproof
of
my
action
,
rather
than
of
my
words
,
that
he
held
up
his
palm
for
inspection
.
It
was
remarkably
calloused
.
I
passed
my
hand
over
the
horny
projections
,
and
my
teeth
went
on
edge
once
more
from
the
horrible
rasping
sensation
produced
.
