Hollow Sea Read Online Free Page A

under his breath. Then aloud: 'Reckon I carry knickers about with me, Mr. Bradshaw?' he said, and grinned.
    Bradshaw said nothing. He was looking into the man's mouth. It was toothless. He lowered the cluster and laid it down on the desk. Then he switched the light on to the bulwark. 'You clear that filthy mess from there, Rajah,' he said. His manner had changed. The man, after wrapping his things together, tied them up with a piece of rope-yarn. He looked from Bradshaw to the bulwark, then back to Bradshaw again. 'Sure,' he said.
    He picked a piece of cotton-waste from a bundle in his pocket and began to clean the bulwark. 'Reckon when you get her covered with muck you won't be so particular like. An' full of rats, too. Eh?' He raised his head and spat over the side. Bradshaw leaned against the half-open saloon door. Wipe it clean,' he said. The little man looked at him, held his eye whilst he extracted the now nearly finished plug of hard-stuff from his pocket. As he bit on it, he lowered his head. Bradshaw said, 'Hurry!' The other flung a vicious glance at him.
    Above them there was a sudden rush of steam from her whistle. They were testing it. A tiny brass cock opened and shut. From the funnel a cloud of smoke ascended spirally. Bradshaw looked up, hearing the whistle. The man in front of him had finished wiping the bulwarks. He threw the waste into the river. 'Satisfied now?' he said. He picked up his bundle. A group of sailors went past. A man hurried up the gangway.
    'You'll find Temple in his hut, Rajah,' Bradshaw said. 'He's got your time.' The man was staring at Bradshaw. He drew near to him, staring into the officer's face. 'Think you're clever.' he said. 'Reckon those funny rats cleverer than you, eh?' Bradshaw exclaimed angrily:
    'Get off this damned ship. You've got more to say than a regiment!' The other watched him coil up the heaving line attached to the cluster.
    This'n ain't got any number yet. Reckon she'll never need one.' He spat into the scupper, picked his greasy cap from the deck and turned towards the gangway. He went to the gangway head, his eyes still following the man as he passed into the shed. 'Dunford's right. He's a monkey, not a man. Glad to see his back. Where they picked him from, heaven knows.' The Rajah passed out of sight. Bradshaw picked up the cluster and went and put it by the hatch coverings. Then he went on the bridge again. He saw Mr. Dunford standing in the port wing. He went on to his room. Below the hammering continued. The ship seemed to throb beneath the avalanche of sound.
    The man standing in the wind heard the sound of footsteps, but he did not move. He was looking right ahead. Well, her name had gone and the spell was cast. In those few hours it seemed as though the old life in her had been cast out. Nothing remained now but the bare bones of a future, and that was uncertain and invisible. It lay hidden in the unfathomable depths of the mist that hung like a pall over the living waters of the seven seas. Necessity's great hand had struck. She lay alone and aloof on that dark, miserable February night, the rain pouring down upon the decks from which the old life had flown. He knew it was like a blight, this sudden sentence of isolation. Already he seemed to sense the enormity of the wilderness into which she would soon thread her way. From stem to stern, from the eyes of her to the poop, she was grey. A mask.
    It spread from hawse-pipe to truck-top. It hid away the clean white lines, the shining brass. He thought: 'A letter and a number.' With her name had gone her spirit. A letter and a number. An ironic clue to the mystery into which she so soon must sink. With each moment of time and each throb of thought, the net was widening. In the night three men sitting at a table changed her future. Hard against the quay, the dark murky waters lapping ceaselessly at her side, she lay waiting. The gangway was now deserted. The swinging yellow light had gone, the monkey with it. She