|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmeii
 

ether perchance she had not simply
screamed. It had never occurred to her before that perhaps she
had. At the time it seemed to her she had no strength for more
than a whisper. Had she been really so loud? And the deadly
chill, the night that had gone by her had left in her body,
vanished from her limbs, passed out of her in a flush. Her face
was turned away from the light, and that fact gave her courage to
continue. Moreover, the man before her was so detached from the
shames and prides and schemes of life that he seemed not to count
at all, except that somehow or other he managed at times to catch
the mere literal sense of the words addressed to him--and answer
them. And answer them! Answer unfailingly, impersonally, without
any feeling.
"You saw Tom--King Tom? Was he there? I mean just then, at the
moment. There was a light at the gangway. Was he on deck?"
"No. In the boat."
"Already? Could I have been heard in the boat down there? You say
the whole ship heard me--and I don't care. But could he hear me?"
"Was it Tom you were after?" said Jorgenson in the tone of a
negligent remark.
"Can't you answer me?" she cried, angrily.
"Tom was busy. No child's play. The boat shoved off," said
Jorgenson, as if he were merely thinking aloud.
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmcvk