his bones with dramatic effect.

"'Cos why?" he continued very loud. "The bloody Yankees been tryin' to
jump my guts out 'cos I stood up for my rights like a good 'un. I am an
Englishman, I am. They set upon me an' I 'ad to run. That's why. A'n't
yer never seed a man 'ard up? Yah! What kind of blamed ship is this?
I'm dead broke. I 'aven't got nothink. No bag, no bed, no blanket, no
shirt--not a bloomin' rag but what I stand in. But I 'ad the 'art to
stand up agin' them Yankees. 'As any of you 'art enough to spare a pair
of old pants for a chum?"

He knew how to conquer the naïve instincts of that crowd. In a moment
they gave him their compassion, jocularly, contemptuously, or surlily;
and at first it took the shape of a blanket thrown at him as he stood
there with the white skin of his limbs showing his human kinship through
the black fantasy of his rags. Then a pair of old shoes fell at his
muddy feet. With a cry:--"From under," a rolled-up pair of canvas
trousers, heavy with tar stains, struck him on the shoulder. The gust of
their benevolence sent a wave of sentimental pity through their
doubting hearts. They were touched by their own readiness to alleviate
a shipmate's misery. Voices cried:--"We will fit you out, old man."
Murmurs: "Never seed seech a hard case.... Poor beggar.... I've got an
old singlet.... Will that be of any use to you?... Take it, matey...."
Those friendly murmurs filled the forecastle. He pawed around with his
naked foot, gathering the things in a heap and looked about for more.
Unemotional Archie perfunctorily contributed to the pile an old cloth
cap with the peak torn off. Old Singleton, lost in the serene regions of
fiction, read on unheeding. Charley, pitiless with the wisdom of youth,
squeaked:--"If you want brass buttons for your new unyforms I've got two
for you." The filthy object of universal charity shook his fist at the