So soft, so sweet, yet so ringing withal was the good mate's voice as he gave his rendering of the 'Bay of Biscay' and 'Tom Bowling' that Lotty had tears in her eyes; but she clapped her little hands as he finished.
'Oh, how much I love that!' she cried with real enthusiasm; 'and oh, Mr Mate, how delighted my daddy Biffins Lee would be to have you in our camp! People would come from all directions to hear you sing real sea-songs like that.'
The mate laughed. 'I fear,' he said, 'I should make but a poor gipsy. But why do you like my songs, little lass?'
'Because I hear things in them.'
'Hear things in them?'
'Yes, oh yes, for as you sing I can hear the woesome wail of white-winged gulls as they beat to windward in the dark-cloud sky, dipping now and then down, down till they touch the darker water and dive through the spray, then up and up, screaming, till the haze hides the silver of their flight. And I can hear the storm wind too, sir, rising and falling, falling and rising, so mournful-like because of the quiet sleeping dead that lie so far beneath the waves upon the yellow sands.'
Lotty was blushing now at her own youthful enthusiasm, and was fain to hide her face on Mrs Skipper's lap. And Mrs Skipper patted the shapely yellow poll.
'So we've really picked up a little poet, have we, from off the stormy main? said Mr Mate.
'Lotty,' cried the captain suddenly, 'you can sing I'm sure!'
The blue, sparkling eyes glanced upwards through the tousled hair. 'Yes,' she replied, 'I sing always in the show. I have a mandoline. Have you a mandoline?'