He had been physically cowed, but his injured dignity remained indomitabe, and nothing could heal his lacerated feelings. Here was land already --home very soon -- a bad pay-day -- no clothes -- more hard work. How offensive all this was. Land. The land draws away life from sick sailors. That nigger there had money -- clothes -- easy times; and would not die. Land draws life away....He felt tempted to go and see whether it did. Perhaps already....It would be a bit of luck. There was money in the beggar's chest. He stepped briskly out of the shadows into the moonlight, and, instantly, his craving, hungry face from sallow became livid. He opened the door of the cabin and had a shock. Sure enough, Jimmy was dead! He moved no more than a recumbent figure with clasped hands, carved on the lid of a stone coffin. Donkin glared with avidity. Then Jimmy, without stirring, blinked his eyelids, and Donkin had another shock. Those eyes were rather startling. He shut the door behind his back with gentle care, looking intently the while at James Wait as though he had come in there at great risk to tell some secret of startling importance. Jimmy did not move but glanced languidly out of the corners of his eyes. ‘Calm?’ he asked. -- ‘Yuss,’said Donkin, very disappointed, and sat down on the box.
Jimmy breathed with composure. He was use to such visits at all times of night or day. Men succeeded one another. They spoke in clear voices, pronounced cheerful words, repeated old jokes, listened to him; and each, going out, seemed to leave behind a little of his own vitality, surrender some of his own strength, renew the assurance of life -- the indestructable thing! He did not like to be alone in his cabin, because, when he was alone, it seemed to him as if he hadn't been there at all.
There was nothing. No pain. Not now. Perfectly right -- but he couldn't enjoy his healthful repose unless some one was by to see it. This man would do as anybody. Donkin watched him stealthily. -- ‘Soon home now,’observed Wait. -- ‘Why d'yer whisper?’ asked Donkin with interest, ‘can't you speak hupz?’ Jimmy looked annoyed and said nothing for a while; then in a lifeless unringing voice: -- ‘Why should I shout? You ain't deaf that I know. -- ‘Oh! I can 'ear right enough,’ answered Donkin in a low tone, and looked down.
He was thinking sadly of going out when Jimmy spoke again. -- ‘Time we did get home.....to get something decent to eat.... I am always hungry.’Donkin felt angry all of a sudden. -- ‘What habout me,’he hissed, ‘I am 'ungry too an' got ter work. You, 'ungry! --‘ Your work won't kill you,’ commented Wait, feebly;‘there's a couple of biscuits in the lower bunk there -- you may have one. I can't eat them.’ Donkin dived in, groped in the corner and when he came up again his mouth was full. He munched with ardour. Jimmy seemed to doze with open eyes. Donkin finished his hard bread and got up. -- ‘You're not going? asked Jimmy, staring at the ceiling. -- ‘No,’said Donkin impulsively, and instead of going out leaned his back against the closed door. He looked at James Wait, and saw him long, lean, dried up, as though all his flesh had shrivelled on his bones in the heat of a white furnace; the meagre fingers of one hand moved lightly upon the edge of the bunk playing an endless tune. To look at him was irritating and fatiguing; he could last like this for days; he was outrageous -- belonging wholly neither to death nor life, and perfectly invulnerable in his apparent ignorance of both. Donkin felt tempted to enlighten him. -- ‘What hare yer thinkin' of?’ he asked surlily. James Wait had a grimacing smile that passed over the deathlike impassiveness of his bony face. incredible and frightful as would, in a dream, have been the sudden smile of a corpse.
‘There is a girl,’ whispered Wait....‘Canton Street girl -- She chucked a third engineer of a Rennie boat -- for me.
Cooks oysters just as I like....She says -- she would chuck -- any toff -- for a coloured gentleman.... That's me. I am kind to women.’he added a shade louder.
Donkin could hardly believe his ears. He was scandalised.
-- ‘Would she? Yer wouldn't be hany good to 'er,’ he said with unrestrained disgust. Wait was not there to hear him. He was Page 111swaggering up the east India Dock Road; saying kindly, ‘Come along for a treat.’ pushing glass swing-doors,, posing with superb assurance in the gaslight above a mahogany counter. -- ‘D'yer think yer will hever get ashore?’ asked Donkin angrily. Wait came back with a start. -- ‘Ten days,’ he said promptly, and returned at once to the regions of memory that know nothing of time.
He felt untired, calm , and as if safely withdrawn within himself beyond the reach of every grave incertitude. There was something of the immutable quality of eternity in the slow moments of his complete restfulness. He was very quiet and easy amongst his vivid reminiscences which he mistook joyfully for images of an undoubted future. He cared for no one. Donkin felt this vaguely like a blind man may feel in his darkness the fatal antagonism of all the surrounding existences, that to him shall for ever remain irrealisable, unseen and enviable. He had a desire to assert his importance, to break, to crush; to be even with everybody for everything; to tear the veil, unmask expose, leave no refuge -- a perfidious desire of truthfulness! He laughed in a mocking splutter and said:
