The spectre-crew gained the beach—quitted the boat, and took up a position under a high rock. The pipes were refilled—the schnapps handed round, and very soon they were as jolly as ghosts could be.
"Come, Jansen, give us a song," cried Spielman; "and you, Dirk Spattrel, keep company with your fiddle."
"My windpipe is not quite so fresh as it was once," said Jansen, putting his bony fingers up to his neck, "but here goes:—
"In spite of wind and weather,
In spite of mountain waves,
If our timbers hold together
And we sink not to our graves;
The Cape we still will double, boys,
The stormy Cape we'll clear,—
Who cares for toil or trouble, boys,