Part 117 (2/2)

d.i.c.k quoted from Torpenhow's letterpress in the Nungapunga Book.

”How do they call moose in Canada, Nilghai?”

The man laughed. Singing was his one polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents in far-off lands had known.

”What shall I sing?” said he, turning in the chair.

”'Moll Roe in the Morning,'” said Torpenhow, at a venture.

”No,” said d.i.c.k, sharply, and the Nilghai opened his eyes. The old chanty whereof he, among a very few, possessed all the words was not a pretty one, but d.i.c.k had heard it many times before without wincing.

Without prelude he launched into that stately tune that calls together and troubles the hearts of the gipsies of the sea--

”Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.”

d.i.c.k turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear the bows of the Barralong cras.h.i.+ng into the green seas on her way to the Southern Cross.

Then came the chorus--

”We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors, We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis forty-five leagues.”

”Thirty-five-thirty-five,” said d.i.c.k, petulantly. ”Don't tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai.”

”The first land we made it was called the Deadman,” and they sang to the end very vigourously.

”That would be a better song if her head were turned the other way--to the Ushant light, for instance,” said the Nilghai.

”Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill,” said Torpenhow. ”Give us something else, Nilghai. You're in fine fog-horn form tonight.”

”Give us the 'Ganges Pilot'; you sang that in the square the night before El-Maghrib. By the way, I wonder how many of the chorus are alive tonight,” said d.i.c.k.

Torpenhow considered for a minute. ”By Jove! I believe only you and I.

Raynor, Vicery, and Deenes--all dead; Vincent caught smallpox in Cairo, carried it here and died of it. Yes, only you and I and the Nilghai.”

”Umph! And yet the men here who've done their work in a well-warmed studio all their lives, with a policeman at each corner, say that I charge too much for my pictures.”

”They are buying your work, not your insurance policies, dear child,”

said the Nilghai.

”I gambled with one to get at the other. Don't preach. Go on with the 'Pilot.' Where in the world did you get that song?”

”On a tombstone,” said the Nilghai. ”On a tombstone in a distant land. I made it an accompaniment with heaps of base chords.”

”Oh, Vanity! Begin.” And the Nilghai began--

”I have slipped my cable, messmates, I'm drifting down with the tide, I have my sailing orders, while yet at anchor ride. And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more light and free.

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