“For this I can tell, that nought will be well,
Till the king enjoys his own again.”
He trolled out these words in a pleasant tenor voice, and was just drawing in breath to continue the rattling cavalier ballad when the young officer swung his right leg in board, and, sitting astride the low bulwark, exclaimed—
“I say, Billy, are you mad?”
“Mad, sir? not that I knows on, why?”
“For singing a disloyal song like that. You’ll be yard-armed, young fellow, if you don’t mind.”
“What, for singing about the king?”
“Yes; if you get singing about a king over the water, my lad. That’s an old song; but some people would think you meant the Pretend— Hallo! look there. You look out there forward, why didn’t you hail? Hi! here fetch me a glass. Catch hold of that line, Billy. She’s running for Shoreham, as sure as a gun. No: all right; let go.”
He threw the line to the gunner just as a mackerel made a snatch at the bait, and before the sailor could catch it, away went the end astern, when the man at the helm made a dash at it just as the slight cord was running over the side.
Billy Waters made a dash at it just at the same moment, and there was a dull thud as the two men’s heads came in contact, and they fell back into a sitting position on the deck, while the mackerel darted frightened away to puzzle the whole shoal of its fellows with the novel appendage hanging to its snout.
“Avast there, you lubber!” exclaimed Billy Waters angrily. “Stand by, my lad, stand by,” replied the other, making a dart back at the helm just as the cutter was beginning to fall off.