“ With never a friend to mourn for him nor a hand to close his eyes: "Bill, he's dead," was all they said; "he's dead, 'n' there he lies." The mate came forrard at seven bells and spat across the rail: "Just lash him up wi' some holystone in a clout o' rotten sail, 'N', rot ye, get a gait on ye, ye're slower'n a bloody snail!" ”
