Part 42 (1/2)
”You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?”
”When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it.
”'When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the Equinox.'”
He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the pa.s.sion that was shaking himself.
”When that storm comes,” he continued, ”I think that all the oars in the s.h.i.+p that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their chests smashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you done anything with that notion of mine yet?”
”No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the world you're so certain about the fittings of the s.h.i.+p. You know nothing of s.h.i.+ps.”
”I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it down. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had loaned me 'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into the story.”
”What sort of things?”
”About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a skin bag, pa.s.sed from bench to bench.”
”Was the s.h.i.+p built so long ago as that?”
”As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a notion, but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I bother you with talking about it?”
”Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?”
”Yes, but it's nonsense.” Charlie flushed a little.
”Never mind; let's hear about it.”
”Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It is so real to me, y'know.”
”Have you the paper on you?”
”Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches.
All the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front page.”
”I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote.”
He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away.
”What is it supposed to mean in English?” I said.
”Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great nonsense,” he repeated, ”but all those men in the s.h.i.+p seem as real people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see it written and printed.”
”But all you've told me would make a long book.”
”Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out.”
”Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?”
”Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid.”