§ 11
Though all was wonder to wee Shane, there was so much of it that it flicked through his head like a dream: the hazy September afternoon; the long, lean vessel like a greyhound; the sails white as a swan's wing; the cordage that rattled like wood; the bare-footed, bearded sailors; the town of Carrickfergus in the offing; the lap-lap-lap of water; the silent man at the wheel; the sudden transition of the friendly Raghery man into a firm, authoritative figure, quick as a cat, rapping out commands like a sergeant-major.
The town of Carrickfergus began to slip by as if drawn by horses. The mate ran up the ladder of the poop.
"Topsails, McCafferty!" the Raghery man ordered.
"Topsails, sir."
A minute later there came the mate's voice from amidships:
"Sheet home the topsails—and put your backs into it!"
Patter of feet. An accordion began to whine like a tinker. Creak and strain. Faster lapping of water. A song raised in chorus:
As I came a-tacking down Paradise Street—
Yo-ho! Blow the man down!
As I came a-tacking down Paradise Street—
Give us some time till we blow the man down!
A trim little bumboat I chanced for to meet!
Blow, bullies, blow the man down!
A trim little bumboat I chanced for to meet!
Give us some time till we blow the man down!
She was round in the counter and bluff in the bows!
Yo-ho! Blow the man down!
She was round in the counter and bluff in the bows!
Give us some time till we blow the man down.
Blow the man down!
Blow, bullies! Blow the man down!