"No more of this work wagon for me," shouted Australia. Snatches of song were interrupted by an order of unmistakable force.
"Lay aft, all hands!" It was Mr. Zerk who came forward and bellowed at the gang about the fore fife rail.
We mustered aft, the shore harpies watching us from the sides of the forward house.
"All here?"
"All aft, sir," Old Smith answered.
Captain Nichols stepped out on the break of the poop.
"Men," he began, "the voyage is over, but we will lay in the bay and strike t'gallant masts before we go under the bridge. You can do this if you want to, or you can go ashore now. I have found you a good crew, ready, and sober. Those who want to go ashore step over to port." All hands did, including Second Mate Tom, who now stood with his old messmates, after a brief four months as an officer aft.
"Peter, come back, and you, Felix. You two stay aboard till we dock. The rest of you can go. I want to say 'good-bye' and wish you good luck. Be careful where you go and what you do."
As the skipper finished the longest speech we had ever heard him make, he turned sharply and walked aft to the companion. We felt like giving a cheer, but the cold eye of the mate was on us. There was a shuffle and hesitation as to what was next.
"Lay forward and get your dunnage, mind that paintwork when you go over the side." Mr. Zerk had given his last order to our crowd.