“Coming?” Jack said, “I ain’t coming anywhere. I am only towing the craft; it’s the chap behind does the steering.”
It is always so with them. The head-rope is always either the “tow-rope” or “the painter.” They starboard or port their helm, “tack through a crowd,” or “wear the ship round” in a most amusing way. They have of course shore-titles for the occasion, but do not always answer to them.
The other day I heard an officer call out, “Sergeant-major!”
No answer.
“Sergeant-major!” This time louder.
Still no reply.
A third and still louder hail produced no response.
“Boatswain, where the devil are you?”
“Ay, ay, sir!” was the instant answer from the man, who was standing close by, but who had quite forgotten his new rank of sergeant-major.
Of an evening, if we have a halt, Jack sometimes dances. The band of the Punjaubees—between whom and the sailors there is a great friendship, although of course they do not understand a word of each other’s language—comes over to the sailors’ camp, and plays dance-music; and half-a-dozen couples of sailors stand up and execute quadrilles, waltzes, and polkas.