When the overseer
misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the hero laughs at
him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of course--the hero."
"How is he chained?"
"With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a sort
of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the lower deck
where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from the hatchways and
through the oar-holes. Can't you imagine the sunlight just squeezing through
between the handle and the hole and wobbling about as the ship moves?"
"I can, but I can't imagine your imagining it."
"How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on the
upper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by three, and
the lowest of all by two. Remember it's quite dark on the lowest deck and all
the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar on that deck he isn't thrown
overboard, but cut up in his chains and stuffed through the oar-hole in little
pieces."
"Why?" I demanded, amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of
command in which it was flung out.
"To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to drag a
man's body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck oars were left
alone, of course they'd stop rowing and try to pull up the benches by all
standing up together in their chains.
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