“Excellent! Allow me to hand you aft; you’ll excuse me.—Forward now, my men; heave away!”
“‘Seven years I courted Sally.’”
“‘Oh! Sally Brown.’”
“‘Seven more of shilley-shally.’”
“‘Oh! Sally Brown.’”
“‘She won’t wed—’”
“Avast heaving. Up there, and loose the topsails; stretch along the topsail-sheets.—Upon my soul, half these children will be killed.—Whose child are you?”
“I—don’t—know.”
“Go and find out, that’s a dear.—Let fall; sheet home; belay starboard sheet; clap on the larboard; belay all that.—Now, then, Mr Fisher.”
“Aye, aye, sir.—Heave away, my lads.”