I'll be coughin' blood before eyght bells.

'Ow can it be myde up to me, I arsk?
'Oo's goin' to do it?
Gawd?
'Ow Gawd must 'ave 'ated me w'en 'e signed me on for a voyage in this bloomin' world of 'is!" This tirade against destiny went on for an hour or more, and then he buckled to his work, limping and groaning, and in his eyes a great hatred for all created things.

His diagnosis was correct, however, for he was seized with occasional sicknesses, during which he vomited blood and suffered great pain.

And as he said, it seemed God hated him too much to let him die, for he ultimately grew better and waxed more malignant than ever.
Several days more passed before Johnson crawled on deck and went about his work in a half-hearted way.

He was still a sick man, and I more than once observed him creeping painfully aloft to a topsail, or drooping wearily as he stood at the wheel.