{"id":"01KG8AME7ARTY7R44YNXH4G5Y0","cid":"bafkreihmvhv22avxh2nnjo3ig2c7rylmjl5zuwhdbgfzuwbiiz3ew22b2m","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":13028,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:36.278Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 1","source_file":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","start_line":12952,"text":"CHAPTER LXXX.\r\nTHE LAST STITCH.\r\n\r\n\r\nJust before daybreak, two of the sail-maker’s gang drew near, each with\r\na lantern, carrying some canvas, two large shot, needles, and twine. I\r\nknew their errand; for in men-of-war the sail-maker is the undertaker.\r\n\r\nThey laid the body on deck, and, after fitting the canvas to it, seated\r\nthemselves, cross-legged like tailors, one on each side, and, with\r\ntheir lanterns before them, went to stitching away, as if mending an\r\nold sail. Both were old men, with grizzled hair and beard, and shrunken\r\nfaces. They belonged to that small class of aged seamen who, for their\r\nprevious long and faithful services, are retained in the Navy more as\r\npensioners upon its merited bounty than anything else. They are set to\r\nlight and easy duties.\r\n\r\n“Ar’n’t this the fore-top-man, Shenly?” asked the foremost, looking\r\nfull at the frozen face before him.\r\n\r\n“Ay, ay, old Ringrope,” said the other, drawing his hand far back with\r\na long thread, “I thinks it’s him; and he’s further aloft now, I hope,\r\nthan ever he was at the fore-truck. But I only hopes; I’m afeard this\r\nar’n’t the last on him!”\r\n\r\n“His hull here will soon be going out of sight below hatches, though,\r\nold Thrummings,” replied Ringrope, placing two heavy cannon-balls in\r\nthe foot of the canvas shroud.\r\n\r\n“I don’t know that, old man; I never yet sewed up a ship-mate but he\r\nspooked me arterward. I tell ye, Ring-rope, these ’ere corpses is\r\ncunning. You think they sinks deep, but they comes up again as soon as\r\nyou sails over ’em. They lose the number of their mess, and their\r\nmess-mates sticks the spoons in the rack; but no good—no good, old\r\nRingrope; they ar’n’t dead yet. I tell ye, now, ten best—bower-anchors\r\nwouldn’t sink this ’ere top-man. He’ll be soon coming in the wake of\r\nthe thirty-nine spooks what spooks me every night in my hammock—jist\r\nafore the mid-watch is called. Small thanks I gets for my pains; and\r\nevery one on ’em looks so ’proachful-like, with a sail-maker’s needle\r\nthrough his nose. I’ve been thinkin’, old Ringrope, it’s all wrong that\r\n’ere last stitch we takes. Depend on’t, they don’t like it—none on\r\n’em.”\r\n\r\nI was standing leaning over a gun, gazing at the two old men. The last\r\nremark reminded me of a superstitious custom generally practised by\r\nmost sea-undertakers upon these occasions. I resolved that, if I could\r\nhelp it, it should not take place upon the remains of Shenly.\r\n\r\n“Thrummings,” said I, advancing to the last speaker, “you are right.\r\nThat last thing you do to the canvas is the very reason, be sure of it,\r\nthat brings the ghosts after you, as you say. So don’t do it to this\r\npoor fellow, I entreat. Try once, now, how it goes not to do it.”\r\n\r\n“What do you say to the youngster, old man?” said Thrummings, holding\r\nup his lantern into his comrade’s wrinkled face, as if deciphering some\r\nancient parchment.\r\n\r\n“I’m agin all innowations,” said Ringrope; “it’s a good old fashion,\r\nthat last stitch; it keeps ’em snug, d’ye see, youngster. I’m blest if\r\nthey could sleep sound, if it wa’n’t for that. No, no, Thrummings! no\r\ninnowations; I won’t hear on’t. I goes for the last stitch!”\r\n\r\n“S’pose you was going to be sewed up yourself, old Ringrope, would you\r\nlike the last stitch then! You are an old, gun, Ringrope; you can’t\r\nstand looking out at your port-hole much longer,” said Thrummings, as\r\nhis own palsied hands were quivering over the canvas.\r\n\r\n“Better say that to yourself, old man,” replied Ringrope, stooping\r\nclose to the light to thread his coarse needle, which trembled in his\r\nwithered hands like the needle, in a compass of a Greenland ship near\r\nthe Pole. “You ain’t long for the sarvice. I wish I could give you some\r\no’ the blood in my veins, old man!”\r\n\r\n“Ye ain’t got ne’er a teaspoonful to spare,” said Thrummings. “It will\r\ngo hard, and I wouldn’t want to do it; but I’m afeard I’ll have the\r\nsewing on ye up afore long!”\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 1"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG8AJVA0FZM38W2EYZDE9FV8","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG89J19NC56FFGBCM2SWEZZY","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG89HMDZKNY753EZE1CJ8HZW","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG8AME7AY6FKW5WAR1NWQXQA","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T20:48:37.098Z","ts":"2026-01-30T20:48:53.932Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}