She raised inquiring eyebrows at his tone. “Anything the matter, daddy? I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You never do that, Jack,” he smiled at her fondly. “Business bothers—nothing to worry about. It’ll be all right ‘when the drive comes down!’”
“That always means I mustn’t ask questions. I won’t; but for being rude to me you shall sing the song. Edith wants to hear it.”
“Oh, do please, Mr. Crooks,” said Miss Garwood sweetly.
“I’ve no more voice than a crow, and Jack knows it,” said Crooks, but followed his daughter meekly to the piano in the next room.
“‘When the Drive Comes Down,’ as sung by Mr. William Crooks, Selected Record,” Jack announced in a metallic voice. She struck a chord, and Crooks, his face beaming and his ill humour forgotten, with the preliminary whine of the genuine shanty vocalist struck into an ancient ballad of the river, which was his especial favourite:
“Come all ye gallant shanty boys, an’ listen while I sing,
We’ve worked six months in cruel frosts, but soon we’ll take our fling.
The ice is black an’ rotten, an’ the rollways is piled high,
So boost upon yer peavey sticks while I do tell ye why-y-y.
For it’s break the roll ways out, me boys, an’ let the big stick slide,
An’ file yer corks, an’ grease yer boots, an’ start upon the drive,
A hundred miles of water is the nearest way to town,
So tie into the tail of her, an’ keep her hustlin’ down-n-n.”
He roared it in a heavy bass, beating time with a thunderous fist. Jack’s clear alto and Joe’s strong baritone struck into the first refrain:
“When the drive comes dow-un, when the jam comes down,
Oh, it’s then we’re paid our money, an’ it’s then we own the town.
All the gutters runs with whiskey when the shanty boys so frisky
Sets their boot corks in the sidewalks when the drive is down-n-n.”
“Splendid!” cried Miss Garwood. “More, Mr. Crooks!” He nodded at her indulgently, and let his big voice go: