He rose and left Harrigan to the dark, which now lay so thick over the sea that he could only dimly make out the black, wallowing length of the ship.

After a time, he went into the dingy forecastle and stretched out on his bunk.

Some of the sailors were already in bed, propping their heads up with brawny, tattooed arms while they smoked their pipes.

For a time Harrigan pondered the mutiny, glancing at the stolid faces of the smokers and trying to picture them in action when they would steal through the night barefooted across the deck--some of them with bludgeons, others with knives, and all with a thirst for murder.
Sleep began to overcome him, and he fought vainly against it.

In a choppy sea the bows of a ship make the worst possible bed, for they toss up and down with sickening rapidity and jar quickly from side to side; but when a vessel is plowing through a long-running ground swell, the bows of the ship move with a sway more soothing than the swing of a hammock in a wind.