from the yard," replied a seaman.

Tom groaned, as though he _did_ consider it something _very_ particular.

He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter,
the ship pitching and tossing about as she did. I sat down beside his
berth, holding on as well as I could. The wind howled through the rigging,
making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled
like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke
from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an
hour. Tom groaned most pitiably. I looked at him, and if I were to live for
a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face. His lips
were blue, and--no matter, I'm not clever at portrait painting: but imagine
an old-fashioned Saracen's Head--not the fine handsome fellow they have
stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809--and you have Tom's
phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter's palette. I
was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, "Why T-o-o-m!"

"It's all up, sir," says he; "I must go; I feel it."

"Don't be foolish," I replied; "Don't die till I call the surgeon." It was
a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.

"No, no; don't call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he's done all he can, sir. But
it's here--it's here!" and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or
the back of his head, I couldn't make out which.

I trembled like a jelly. I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected
that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.