a

put your thumbs

put your thumbs into his throat until he stops moving, understand?"
I twitched the knife from Pogey's hand, shoved him away. His face was as white as the dead face of the thing I had killed in the ravine. The recollection must have shown in my expression.
Pogey whimpered, backed, turned to the sailor who was standing wide-eyed, all warts and Adam's apple, looking from one of us to another like a spectator at a ping-pong tournament.
"Get me to my room," Pogey gasped. His knees went slack as the sailor caught him. Behind me, Joel moaned.
"Let's get this boy down to my sick-bay," Doc was saying. "Second-degree, maybe worse. Calluses helped . . ."
As I turned, his eyes found mine. "You better let me take a look at you, too," he said. "You're hotter'n a power pile, Jones."
"Never mind that," I snapped. "Just see to Joel."
Doc eyed the cut on my face. "You should have had a couple of stitches."
"All I need is to get to Jax and get clear of this scow," I said. "Let's get moving."
Doc shrugged. "Suit yourself." He went out, leading Joel. I followed.
* * *
An hour later, in the cramped, paper-heaped room the Mate called his office, I stood before the ancient plastic-topped desk, waiting for him to finish his tirade. Two sailors lounged against the wall, watching. Joel stood beside me, his bandage-swathed hands looking bigger than ever. Carboni's good eye looked up at him from under his ragged eyebrows.
"I had enough of your numbskull tricks," he growled. "When we hit Jax, you're