Chapter 80 - Page 2

to do it."

"What do you say to the youngster, old man?" said Thrummings,
holding up his lantern into his comrade's wrinkled face, as if
deciphering some ancient parchment.

"I'm agin all innowations," said Ringrope; "it's a good old
fashion, that last stitch; it keeps 'em snug, d'ye see,
youngster. I'm blest if they could sleep sound, if it wa'n't for
that. No, no, Thrummings! no innowations; I won't hear on't. I
goes for the last stitch!"

"S'pose you was going to be sewed up yourself, old Ringrope,
would you like the last stitch then! You are an old, gun,
Ringrope; you can't stand looking out at your port-hole much
longer," said Thrummings, as his own palsied hands were quivering
over the canvas.

"Better say that to yourself, old man," replied Ringrope,
stooping close to the light to thread his coarse needle, which
trembled in his withered hands like the needle, in a compass of a
Greenland ship near the Pole. "You ain't long for the sarvice. I
wish I could give you some o' the blood in my veins, old man!"

"Ye ain't got ne'er a teaspoonful to spare," said Thrummings.
"It will go hard, and I wouldn't want to do it; but I'm afeard
I'll have the sewing on ye up afore long!"

"Sew me up? Me dead and you alive, old man?" shrieked Ringrope.
"Well, I've he'rd the parson of the old Independence say as how
old age was deceitful; but I never seed it so true afore this
blessed night. I'm sorry for ye, old man--to see you so innocent-
like, and Death all the while turning in and out with you in your
hammock, for all the world like a hammock-mate."

"You lie! old man," cried Thrummings, shaking with rage. "It's
_you_ that have Death for a hammock-mate; it's _you_ that will
make a hole in the shot-locker soon."

"Take that back!" cried Ringrope, huskily, leaning far over the
corpse, and, needle in hand, menacing his companion with his
aguish fist. "Take that back, or I'll throttle your lean bag of
wind fer ye!"

"Blast ye! old chaps, ain't ye any more manners than to be
fighting over a dead man?" cried one of the sail-maker's mates,
coming down from the spar-deck. "Bear a hand!--bear a hand! and
get through with that job!"

"Only one more stitch to take," muttered Ringrope, creeping near
the face.

"Drop your '_palm_,' then and let Thrummings take it; follow me--
the foot of the main-sail wants mending--must do it afore a
breeze springs up. D'ye hear, old chap! I say, drop your _palm_,
and follow me."

At the reiterated command of his superior, Ringrope rose,