Singleton lived untouched by human emotions. Taciturn and unsmiling, he breathed amongst us—in that alone resembling the rest of the crowd. We were trying to be decent chaps, and found it jolly difficult; we oscillated between the desire of virtue and the fear of ridicule; we wished to save ourselves from the pain of remorse, but did not want to be made the contemptible dupes of our sentiment. Jimmy’s hateful accomplice seemed to have blown with his impure breath undreamt of subtleties into our hearts. We were disturbed and cowardly. That we knew. Singleton seemed to know nothing, understand nothing. We had thought him till then as wise as he looked, but now we dared, at times, suspect him of being stupid—from old age. One day, however, at dinner, as we sat on our boxes round a tin dish that stood on the deck within the circle of our feet, Jimmy expressed his general disgust with men and things in words that were particularly disgusting. Singleton lifted his head. We became mute. The old man, addressing Jimmy, asked:—“Are you dying?” Thus interrogated, James Wait appeared horribly startled and confused. We all were startled. Mouths remained open; hearts thumped, eyes blinked; a dropped tin fork rattled in the dish; a man rose as if to go out, and stood still. In less than a minute Jimmy pulled himself together:—“Why? Can’t you see I am?” he answered shakily. Singleton lifted a piece of soaked biscuit (“his teeth”—he declared—“had no edge on them now”) to his lips.—“Well, get on with your dying,” he said with venerable mildness; “don’t raise a blamed fuss with us over that job. We can’t help you.” Jimmy fell back in his bunk, and for a long time lay very still wiping the perspiration off his chin. The dinner-tins were put away quickly. On deck we discussed the incident in whispers. Some showed a chuckling exultation. Many looked grave. Wamibo, after long periods of staring dreaminess, attempted abortive smiles; and one of the young Scandinavians, much tormented by doubt, ventured in the second dogwatch to approach Singleton (the old man did not encourage us much to speak to him) and ask sheepishly:—“You think he will die?” Singleton looked up.—“Why, of course he will die,” he said deliberately. This seemed decisive. It was promptly imparted to everyone by him who had consulted the oracle. Shy and eager, he would step up and with averted gaze recite his formula:—“Old Singleton says he will die.” It was a relief! At last we knew that our compassion would not be misplaced, and we could again smile without misgivings—but we reckoned without Donkin. Donkin “didn’t want to ’ave no truck with ’em dirty furriners.” When Nilsen came to him with the news: “Singleton says he will die,” he answered him by a spiteful “And so will you—you fatheaded Dutchman. Wish you Dutchmen were all dead—‘stead comin’ takin’ our money inter your starvin’ country.” We were appalled. We perceived that after all Singleton’s answer meant nothing. We began to hate him for making fun of us. All our certitudes were going; we were on doubtful terms with our officers; the cook had given us up for lost; we had overheard the boatswain’s opinion that “we were a crowd of softies.” We suspected Jimmy, one another, and even our very selves. We did not know what to do. At every insignificant turn of our humble life we met Jimmy overbearing and blocking the way, arm-in-arm with his awful and veiled familiar. It was a weird servitude.
It began a week after leaving Bombay and came on us stealthily like any other great misfortune. Everyone had remarked that Jimmy from the first was very slack at his work; but we thought it simply the outcome of his philosophy of life. Donkin said:—“You put no more weight on a rope than a bloody sparrer.” He disdained him. Belfast, ready for a fight, exclaimed provokingly:—“You don’t kill yourself, old man!”—“Would you?” he retorted with extreme, scorn—and Belfast retired. One morning, as we were washing decks, Mr. Baker called to him:—“Bring your broom over here, Wait.” He strolled languidly.
“Move yourself! Ough!” grunted Mr. Baker; “what’s the matter with your hind legs?” He stopped dead short. He gazed slowly with eyes that bulged out with an expression audacious and sad.—“It isn’t my legs,” he said, “it’s my lungs.” Everybody listened.—“What’s … Ough! … What’s wrong with them?” inquired Mr. Baker. All the watch stood around on the wet deck, grinning, and with brooms or buckets in their hands. He said mournfully:—“Going—or gone. Can’t you see I’m a dying man? I know it!” Mr. Baker was disgusted.—“Then why the devil did you ship aboard here?”—“I must live till I die—mustn’t I?” he replied. The grins became audible.—“Go off my deck—get out of my sight,” said Mr. Baker. He was nonplussed. It was a unique experience. James Wait, obedient, dropped his broom, and walked slowly forward. A burst of laughter followed him. It was too funny. All hands laughed. … They laughed! … Alas!
He became the tormentor of all our moments; he was worse than a nightmare. You couldn’t see that there was anything wrong
