Once, when it was rather gusty weather, all hands were wanted, and the
skipper ordered him to furl a sail.
"I can't," said Eric, in an accent of despair, barely stirring, and not
lifting his eyes to the man's unfeeling face.
"Can't, d---- you. Can't. We'll soon see whether you can or no! You do
it, or _I_ shall have to mend your leg for you;" and he showered down a
storm of oaths.
Eric rose, and resolutely tried to mount the rigging, determined at
least to give no ground he could help to their wilful cruelty. But the
effort was vain, and with a sharp cry of suffering he dropped once
more on deck.
"Cursed young brat! I suppose you think we're going to bother ourselves
with you, and yer impudence, and get victuals for nothing. It's all
sham. Here, Jim, tie him up."
A stout sailor seized the unresisting boy, tied his hands together, and
then drew them up above his head, and strung them to the rigging.
"Why didn't ye strip him first, d---- you?" roared the skipper.
"He's only got that blue shirt on, and that's soon mended," said the
man, taking hold of the collar of the shirt on both sides, and tearing
it open with a great rip.
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