"Garn!" he said. "Don't yer fret yerself. I'll tike er bloomin' piy-diy
out of 'er. Blarst 'em. I ain't funky of 'em."

I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living.

I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.

We had nearly mast-headed the yard, and the Second Mate was looking up
at the dark outline of the sail, ready to sing out "Belay"; when, all at
once, there came a queer sort of muffled shout from Williams.

"Vast hauling, you men," shouted the Second Mate.

We stood silent, and listened.

"What's that, Williams?" he sung out. "Are you all clear?"

For nearly half a minute we stood, listening; but there came no reply.
Some of the men said afterwards that they had noticed a curious rattling
and vibrating noise aloft that sounded faintly above the hum and swirl
of the wind. Like the sound of loose ropes being shaken and slatted
together, you know. Whether this noise was really heard, or whether it
was something that had no existence outside of their imaginations, I
cannot say. I heard nothing of it; but then I was at the tail end of the
rope, and furthest from the fore rigging; while those who heard it were
on the fore part of the haulyards, and close up to the shrouds.

The Second Mate put his hands to his mouth.