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Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas, Sir, 1863-1944

"The Mayor of Troy"


"He's seen 'em!" he gasped. "Run, doctor, run--there's a dear soul--
or he'll be doin' murder!"
"Seen what?"
"Run, I tell you! Come!" Suiting the action to the word, Mr. Jope,
still gripping his comrade's arm, rushed him out of the sick bay, the
doctor and the marine at their heels. In the excitement, the Major
tumbled out of his hammock, tore aside the sail-flap, and staggered
after them along the dim and empty lower-deck to a ladder which led
up to daylight.
How to describe the spectacle which met his dazzled eyes as he thrust
his head above the hatchway? Aloft the _Vesuvius_ spread her full
sails in cloud upon cloud of dove-coloured grey (for, in fact, she
carried very dingy canvas) against the blue of heaven, and reached
along with the northerly breeze on her larboard quarter, heeling
gently, yet just low enough for the Major to blink as his gaze,
travelling beyond the lee bulwarks, caught the dazzle of foam knocked
up and spreading off her blunt bows. But not long did he gaze on
this; for in the scuppers under the bulwarks, in every attitude of
complete woe, some prostrate, some supine, all depicted with the
liveliest yellows and greens of seasickness beneath their theatrical
paint, lay the crew of H.M.S. _Poseidon_. Yes, even the wicked
Lieutenant reclined there with the rest, with one hand upraised and
grasping a ring-bolt, while the soft sway of the ship now lifted his
garish tinselled epaulettes into the sunlight, now sank and drew
across them, as upon a dial, the edge of the bulwarks' shadow.


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