“What’s that, master?” inquired old Tom.
“It’s Latin for lobscouse, depend upon it, father,” cried Tom, who was stirring up the savoury mess with a large wooden spoon. “He be a deadly lively old gentleman, with his dead language. Dinner’s all ready. Are we to let go the anchor, or pipe to dinner first?”
“We may as well anchor, boys. We have not a quarter of an hour’s more ebb, and the wind is heading us.”
Tom and I went forward, brailed up the mainsail, cleared away, and let go the anchor. The lighter swung round rapidly to the stream. The Dominie, who had been in a fit of musing, with his eyes cast upon the forests of masts which we had passed below London Bridge, and which were now some way astern of us, of a sudden exclaimed, in a loud voice, “Parce precor! Periculosum est!”
The lighter, swinging short round to her anchor, had surprised the Dominie with the rapid motion of the panorama, and he thought we had fallen in with one of the whirlpools mentioned by Tom. “What has happened, good Dux? tell me,” cried the Dominie to old Tom, with alarm in his countenance.
“Why, master, I’ll tell you after my own fashion,” replied old Tom, smiling; and then singing, as he held the Dominie by the button of his spencer—
“Now to her berth the craft draws nigh,
With slacken’d sail, she feels the tide;
‘Stand clear the cable!’ is the cry—
The anchor’s gone, we safely ride.
“And now, master, we’ll bail out the lobscouse. We sha’n’t weigh anchor again until to-morrow morning; the wind’s right in our teeth, and it will blow fresh, I’m sartain. Look how the scud’s flying; so now we’ll have a jolly time of it, and you shall have your allowance of grog on board before you turn in.”
“I have before heard of that potation,” replied the Dominie, sitting down on the coaming of the hatchway, “and fain would taste it.”