Aлександр Грин - The ships in Liss

When the cabin boy, who had gone to Estamp with the note, came in for some reason, Bitt-Boy asked him:

"Did he badger you for a long time, lad?"

"I didn't say where you were. He stamped his feet and shouted that he'd hang me from the yardarm, and I ran away."

Esquiros was lively and cheerful.

"Bitt-Boy!" he said. "I thought of how happy you must be if someone else's luck means nothing at all to you."

Sometimes a word has a deadly effect. Bitt-Boy slowly turned pale; his face became pathetically distorted. The shadow of an inner convulsion passed over it. He put his glass on the table, rolled his jersey up to his chin, and unbuttoned his shirt.

Esquiros shuddered. An ugly, ulcerous tumour protruded against the white skin.

"Cancer..." he said, sobering.

Bitt-Boy nodded and, turning away, began to put his bandage and clothing in order. His hands shook.

Above they were still singing the same song, but already for the last time. A gust of wind dispersed the words of the last part; all that they could catch below was:

"Far off glitters the Southern Cross..." and, after a vague echo, there came through the door that had been slammed shut from the rolling:

"...have mercy on us all!"

The pilot Bitt-Boy, "bearer of good fortune", made out these five words better and more clearly than anyone else.

1918