This went on for some time with great spirit and a tremendous amount of noise, sufficient to make the slaves in the hold uneasy, and a good deal of murmuring and talking went on.
The sounds ceased, and there was a hail from the forecastle.
“Hey, there, yew, on the watch!”
“Hullo! What is it?” cried Tom Fillot.
“Ask yewr young skipper to pitch us down a little ’bacco, will you, mister? My lads here is out, and they want to make their miserable lives happy.”
“I oughtn’t to let them have any,” thought Mark; “but it may keep them quiet. I hope they will not set the ship on fire.”
So a roll of tobacco was thrown down to them through the ventilator, pipes were evidently lit, for the strong fumes came up, and the singing and dancing went on again more uproariously than ever, till Mark began to feel annoyed.
“The brutes!” he said to himself; “they’ve been asleep all day and can sit up all night. Ah, well, they’re prisoners, so I will not be too hard upon them.”
Just then Tom Fillot left his post for a moment.
“They must have got some grog below, sir, or they wouldn’t keep on dancing like that. Nuff to tire anyone.”