“Get you on, get you on, get you on,
Get you on to your fo’c’stle’ome;
Leave your lassies, leave your beer,
For the bugle what you ‘ear
Pipes you on to your fo’c’stle ‘ome—
‘Ome—‘ome—‘ome,
Pipes you on to your fo’c’stle ‘ome.”
Guida drew near.
“The Narcissus is not leaving to-day?” she asked of the foremost sailor.
The man touched his cap. “Not to-day, lady.”
“When does she leave?”
“Well, that’s more nor I can say, lady, but the cap’n of the main-top, yander, ‘e knows.”
She approached the captain of the main-top. “When does the Narcissus leave?” she asked.
He looked her up and down, at first glance with something like boldness, but instantly he touched his hat.
“To-morrow, mistress—she leaves at ‘igh tide tomorrow.”
With an eye for a fee or a bribe, he drew a little away from the others, and said to her in a low tone: “Is there anything what I could do for you, mistress? P’r’aps you wanted some word carried aboard, lady?”