I was not sniffling, though my Reason why I’m a bitch shirt might well have been drawn and twitching from the pain. But I called up all my resolution, set my teeth, and hobbled back and forth from galley to cabin and cabin to galley without further mishap. Two things I had acquired by my accident an injured knee cap that went undressed and from which I suffered for weary months, and the name which Wolf Larsen had called me from the poop.
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Thereafter, fore and Reason why I’m a bitch shirt, I was known by no other name, until the term became a part of my thought processes and I identified it with myself, thought of myself as though Hump were I and had always been I. It was no easy task, waiting on the cabin table, where sat Wolf Larsen, Johansen, and the six hunters. The cabin was small, to begin with, and to move around, as I was compelled to, was not made easier by the schooner’s violent pitching and wallowing. But what struck me most forcibly was the total lack of sympathy on the part of the men whom I served. I could feel my knee through my clothes, swelling, and swelling, and I was sick and faint from the pain of it. I could catch glimpses of my face, white and ghastly, distorted with pain, in the cabin mirror.