"Now then, Beale!" cried Mr. Rout.
The steam hissed low. The piston-rods slid in and out. Jukes put his
ear to the tube. The voice was ready for him. It said: "Pick up all the
money. Bear a hand now. I'll want you up here." And that was all.
"Sir?" called up Jukes. There was no answer.
He staggered away like a defeated man from the field of battle. He had
got, in some way or other, a cut above his left eyebrow--a cut to the
bone. He was not aware of it in the least: quantities of the China Sea,
large enough to break his neck for him, had gone over his head, had
cleaned, washed, and salted that wound. It did not bleed, but only gaped
red; and this gash over the eye, his dishevelled hair, the disorder of
his clothes, gave him the aspect of a man worsted in a fight with fists.
"Got to pick up the dollars." He appealed to Mr. Rout, smiling pitifully
at random.
"What's that?" asked Mr. Rout, wildly. "Pick up . . . ? I don't care.
. . ." Then, quivering in every muscle, but with an exaggeration of
paternal tone, "Go away now, for God's sake. You deck people'll drive
me silly. There's that second mate been going for the old man. Don't you
know? You fellows are going wrong for want of something to do. . . ."
At these words Jukes discovered in himself the beginnings of anger.
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