That very night, as Justice lay so disturbed in his sleep, William Butten also lay awake. He, too, was afraid. He, too, was in a great sweat. He lay tossing and turning —writhing in his hammock in the crew's quarters. `What's the matter wi' ye?' came a gruff, questioning voice, muffled and sleepy. 'Keep still there.' William Butten let out a great bellowing curse in reply. `Can't anyone show a body some fellow-creature feeling? I'm sick. The gripe's got to me. It's so hot in here. I feel like an oven . . . Can't anybody get me a drink? I'm like a lemon squeezed dry. Drink, will ye? Drink, I say.' `Be quiet, will ye? Stop yer noise,' cried another. 'Let's all sleep while we can — we've worked 'ard 'null for it all day. Butten! You ought to leave off yer licker — that's yer trouble. You're rottin' your innards with drink, man. And you're upsettin' our sleep. Quiet there.'
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