of the sarpint, suh, the wisdom of the sarpint."

"Lemme get the hatchet to him!" vociferated the sailor. "Lemme get the
hatchet!" He shoved the steel edge close to Mr. Taylor's finger and used
the man's teeth as a fulcrum. Jan held on and breathed through his nose,
snorting like a grampus. "Steady, all! Now she takes it!"

"Thank you, suh; it is a powerful relief." And Mr. Taylor proceeded to
gather into his arms the victim's wildly waving legs.

But Jan upreared in his Berserker rage; bleeding, frothing, cursing; five
frozen years thawing into sudden hell. They swayed backward and forward,
panted, sweated, like some cyclopean, many-legged monster rising from the
lower deeps. The slush-lamp went over, drowned in its own fat, while the
midday twilight scarce percolated through the dirty canvas of the tent.

"For the love of Gawd, Jan, get yer senses back!" pleaded Red Bill. "We
ain't goin' to hurt yeh, 'r kill yeh, 'r anythin' of that sort. Jes'
want to hang yeh, that's all, an' you a-messin' round an' rampagin'
somethin' terrible. To think of travellin' trail together an' then bein'
treated this-a way. Wouldn't 'bleeved it of yeh, Jan!"

"He's got too much steerage-way. Grab holt his legs, Taylor, and heave'm
over!"

"Yes, suh, Mistah Lawson. Do you press youah weight above, after I give
the word." The Kentuckian groped about him in the murky darkness. "Now,
suh, now is the accepted time!"

There was a great surge, and a quarter of a ton of human flesh tottered