“Damn it,” Martigan said when she was about half-dressed.
“What?”
“Thompson must be dead.”
From up above, Jim said, “You correct, Captain Howling Mad. Boatswain Roland put...urm...he put into the well last night.”
Martigan didn’t know where he found the strength, but he found himself, almost against his will, scrabbling against the sides of the mud pit, trying to claw his way up. Wimpy chirped and poked him with a stick until he stopped.
“Jim, you tell that son of a w***e, Napoleon, that he’ll wish I fed him to one of those ghouls!”
His face a statue, Jim replied, “I probably not tell him that. For your sake.”
Martigan scowled.
“Gentlemen,” Jim said, “I leave you in the hands of...urm...what you call Wargajahat again?”
“Wimpy.”
Jim nodded.
“Just so.”
Jim disappeared through
