He could just see a coil of foam on the blackness to mark where the
smack had gone down, and, as he cleared his eyes, he saw the cloudy
shape of the steamer far away. "Harry, boy!" he sang out, but Harry must
have been hit by a spar, and Jack Brown was left alone on that bleak,
black waste of wandering water.
"A lingering death," he murmured, as he felt the spray cut round his
head; but he struggled resolutely to keep his face front the set of the
sea, and the buoy supported him bravely. His thoughts ran on things
past; he had spoken unkindly of Sally, behind her back; he had been
tipsy--Ah! how often! Then he thought, "Shall I pray and repent?" All
the dare-devil in the deluded lad's soul arose at this question, and he
snarled "No. Blowed if I snivel just yet, only because I'm in a bad
way." Oh, Jack, Jack! And the deep grave weltering below you, and only a
ring of cork and oilskin to keep you out of that cold home. Was there
never a shudder as you thought of the crowding fishes? Their merciless
cold eyes! Their grey, slimy skin! But Jack was at that day a reckless
fellow, and he lived to be passionately sorry for his splenetic madness.
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