In The Morning, My First Thought Was Of The Sick Man.
I was afraid
I should not recognise him, baffling had been the light of the
lantern; and found myself unable to decide if he were Scots,
English, or Irish.
He had certainly employed north-country words
and elisions; but the accent and the pronunciation seemed
unfamiliar and incongruous in my ear.
To descend on an empty stomach into Steerage No. 1, was an
adventure that required some nerve. The stench was atrocious; each
respiration tasted in the throat like some horrible kind of cheese;
and the squalid aspect of the place was aggravated by so many
people worming themselves into their clothes in twilight of the
bunks. You may guess if I was pleased, not only for him, but for
myself also, when I heard that the sick man was better and had gone
on deck.
The morning was raw and foggy, though the sun suffused the fog with
pink and amber; the fog-horn still blew, stertorous and
intermittent; and to add to the discomfort, the seamen were just
beginning to wash down the decks. But for a sick man this was
heaven compared to the steerage. I found him standing on the hot-
water pipe, just forward of the saloon deck house. He was smaller
than I had fancied, and plain-looking; but his face was
distinguished by strange and fascinating eyes, limpid grey from a
distance, but, when looked into, full of changing colours and
grains of gold.
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