“Shanandoah, I love yore daughter!”
“Bark you hounds!” roared the mate. “Sing aout an’ heave ’round!” And the chorus was timidly voiced in half-a-dozen keys.
“Away! My rolling river!”
The black soloist pushed and sang.
“Oh, Shanandoah, I loves to hear yo!”
Then the crowd, warming to their work, roared in unison.
“Ah, ha, we’re bound away—
’Cross the wide Missouri!”
The ancient chantey “took hold” and the men woke up from their sullen apathy and stamped around the clinking capstan roaring the plaintive refrains to the negro’s quavering solo. The mate stood watching with a smile on his keen visage. “That’s what we want to hear aboard these hookers!” he said. “When I don’t hear a craowd singin’ out they’re liverish and I’m ready to dose ’em up with a double whack of black draught!”