Some were sent into the woods to cut timber for house-
beams, others to cutting cane-grass for thatching, and forty of them
lifted a whale-boat above their heads and carried it down to the sea.
Sheldon had gritted his teeth, pulled his collapsing soul together, and
taken Berande plantation into his fist once more.
"Have you seen the barometer?" Captain Oleson asked, pausing at the
bottom of the steps on his way to oversee the disembarkation of the sick.
"No," Sheldon answered. "Is it down?"
"It's going down."
"Then you'd better sleep aboard to-night," was Sheldon's judgment. "Never
mind the funeral. I'll see to poor Hughie."
"A nigger was kicking the bucket when I dropped anchor."
The captain made the statement as a simple fact, but obviously waited for
a suggestion. The other felt a sudden wave of irritation rush through
him.
"Dump him over," he cried. "Great God, man! don't you think I've got
enough graves ashore?"
"I just wanted to know, that was all," the captain answered, in no wise
offended.
Sheldon regretted his childishness.
"Oh, Captain Oleson," he called. "If you can see your way to it, come
ashore to-morrow and lend me a hand. If you can't, send the mate."
"Right O. I'll come myself. Mr. Johnson's dead, sir.
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