This was done, and
one of the gangways unshipped.
We had no decent grating big enough, so they had to get off one of the
hatches, and use it instead. The wind had died away during the morning,
and the sea was almost a calm--the ship lifting ever so slightly to an
occasional glassy heave. The only sounds that struck on the ear were the
soft, slow rustle and occasional shiver of the sails, and the continuous
and monotonous creak, creak of the spars and gear at the gentle
movements of the vessel. And it was in this solemn half-quietness that
the Skipper read the burial service.
They had put the Dutchman first upon the hatch (I could tell him by his
stumpiness), and when at last the Old Man gave the signal, the Second
Mate tilted his end, and he slid off, and down into the dark.
"Poor old Dutchie," I heard one of the men say, and I fancy we all felt
a bit like that.
Then they lifted Jacobs on to the hatch, and when he had gone, Jock.
When Jock was lifted, a sort of sudden shiver ran through the crowd. He
had been a favourite in a quiet way, and I know I felt, all at once,
just a bit queer.
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