There was a faint radiance around the shut door of the mess hall, and Madden walked toward it rather unsteadily, with the spumy brine dashing into his face.
A signal lantern was attached to one of the shoring stanchions near the mess hall, and as Madden moved into its dull glow, another bundled form entered from the other side. The figure stopped and saluted.
“If you please, sor,” he bawled in Madden's ear, “th' nixt watch is sick.”
“Sick! The whole watch sick? What do you mean, Mike?”
The Irishman grinned in the dim light, “Yis, sor, they're in their bunks wishin' to die. They've niver been in a blow before. It's say-sick they ar-re.”
Both men were holding to the stanchion.
“Seasick!” ejaculated Madden. “How about Heck Mulcher and Ben Galton?” he recalled the names on the list.
“The whole sit of navvies, sor, ar-re down on their backs, not carin' at all, at all, whether we float, sink, swim, or go to Davy Jones' locker.”
“Well, Caradoc's next—come with me.”
