"And Dicky Lamb, he says to the crew—
He was the bosun's mate—
Tickle my guts! Will ye do what I do?
Be game, says I; tempt fate!'"
Bones joined valiantly in the sweep of the tune:
"We are forty-five before the mast,
And ten green clerks berthed aft,
With the cap'n, the cook, the mates and last,
Simmy, the boy, who's daft.
"That's fifteen hands against forty-five.
Christ! What an easy lay!
We'll take 'em at night, and dead or alive,
Pitch 'em in Biscay Bay.
"Oh, that was a night the wind howled free,
The sails froze to the mast,
And Dicky Lamb and the Portugee,
They bound the cap'n fast."
They were out on deck now, and Flint stayed the song long enough to roar:
"Lay aft, ye swabs! Ye asked for a fo'csle council, and ye shall have it. —— me, Bill, can't ye sing louder?"
"Louder!" I muttered to Moira and Peter. "Certes, ye might hear them on the Spyglass."
"Ssh!" reproved Moira. "I will be wanting to hear the rest of it. There, Darby is singing now—and others."
A score of voices took up the savage lilt: