Either of the
mates, old men that they were, was muscularly worth half-a-dozen of
the wretched creatures.
"This is what sailin's come to," Mr. Pike paused to snort in my ear.
"This ain't the place for an officer down here pulling and hauling.
But what can you do when the bosuns are worse than the men?"
"I thought sailors sang songs when they pulled," I said.
"Sure they do. Want to hear 'em?"
I knew there was malice of some sort in his voice, but I answered
that I'd like to very much.
"Here, you bosun!" Mr. Pike snarled. "Wake up! Start a song!
Topsail halyards!"
In the pause that followed I could have sworn that Sundry Buyers was
pressing his hands against his abdomen, while Nancy, infinite
bleakness freezing upon his face, was wetting his lips to begin.
Nancy it was who began, for from no other man, I was confident, could
have issued so sepulchral a plaint. It was unmusical, unbeautiful,
unlively, and indescribably doleful. Yet the words showed that it
should have ripped and crackled with high spirits and lawlessness,
for the words poor Nancy sang were:
"Away, way, way, yar,
We'll kill Paddy Doyle for bus boots.
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