Gordon Young

“ I never seen so many tears in a man. Dreadful times we've been havin', sir. Dreadful. An' this, sir, I helped 'im sharpen this——”
“Leave it,” said McGuire. “He may have to fight his way—up—but he'll get there.”
“Yes, 'ir. Yes, 'ir. I turned the grin'stone when he sharpened it. He were partic'lar, sir. I little thought—it's here to-day—to-morrow—many mates out there as was alive yeste'day. If you'll take his feet, sir. Only the one, you say?”
“The only Christian.”
“Oh, I see, sir,” said Sails blankly, finding something not heard before in his sixty or more years on ships. ”

“ The pride that he would carry into the Judgment Hall was that canvas burst before his stitches parted.
“In here, Sails.”
McGuire pointed to Matt Ward's room.
“Yes, 'ir. Yes, 'ir.”
He stooped in ague-like feebleness and picked up his fold of canvas, tremblingly but without emotion.
“Only the one, sir? I thought—it were well to have some iron, sir. Iron 'r coal. There's them as uses broke holystones. If I'd kept reckonin', sir, it's more 'n four-score mates I've give their harbor furl. Way we all must go, sir—all must go. Here to-day—out there to-morrow.” ”