Part 7 (1/2)
”There isn't a bit of good looking in the dark, is there?” said Allan.
”Well,” continued Ralph, ”figuratively speaking, look here; I don't see the good of sticking up on deck in the cold. We're not doing an atom of good; let us go below and finish our supper.”
”Right,” said Allan; ”and mind you, that poor girl is below there all this time. She may want some refreshment.”
When they entered the saloon they found it empty, deserted as far as human beings were concerned. Polly the c.o.c.katoo was there, no one else.
”Well?” said the bird, inquiringly, as she helped herself to an enormous mouthful of hemp-seed. ”Well?”
”What have you done with the young lady?” asked Allan.
”The proof o' the pudding--”
Polly was too busy eating to say more. Peter the steward entered just then, overhearing the question as he came.
”That strange girl, sir,” he replied, ”went over the side and away in her boat as soon as the s.h.i.+p struck.”
”Well, I call that a pity,” said Allan; ”the poor girl comes here to warn us of danger and never stops for thanks. It is wonderful.”
”From this date,” remarked Ralph, ”I cease to wonder at anything.
Steward, you know we were only half done with supper, and we're all as hungry as hunters, and--”
But Peter was off, and in a few minutes our boys were supping as quietly and contentedly as if they had been in the Coffee-room of the Queen's Hotel, Glasgow, instead of being on a lee sh.o.r.e, with the certainty that if it came on to blow not a timber of the good s.h.i.+p _Arrandoon_ that would not be smashed into matchwood.
But hark! the noise on deck recommences, the men are heaving on the winch, the engines are once more at work, and the great screw is revolving. Then there is a shout from the men forward.
”She moves!”
”Hurrah! then, boys, hurrah!” cried McBain; ”heave, and she goes.”
[The word ”hurrah” in the parlance of North Sea sailors means ”do your utmost” or ”make all speed.”]
The men burst into song--tune a wild, uncouth sailor's melody, words extempore, one man singing one line, another metreing it with a second, with a chorus between each line, in which all joined, with all their strength of voice to the tune, with all the power of their brawny muscles to the winch. Mere doggerel, but it did the turn better, perhaps, than more refined music would have done.
In San Domingo I was born, _Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
And reared among the yellow corn.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
Our bold McBain is a captain nice, _Chorus_--Hurrah! lads, hurrah!
The main-brace he is _sure_ to splice.
Heave, boys, and away we go.
The Faroe Isles are not our goal, Oh! no, lads, no!
We'll reach the North, and we'll _bag_ the Pole, Heave, boys, and away we go, Hurrah!
”We're off,” cried Stevenson, excitedly. ”Hurrah! men. Hurrah! hurrah!
hurrah!”