There was jollity, therefore, forward. Yarns were told, songs were sung, and every now and then the sweet music of guitar and fiddle floated aft.
It was for all the world like an old-fashioned Saturday-night at sea.
And those in the saloon or commander's cabin, including the soldiers, the ship's doctor, first lieutenant, and Creggan, felt very happy indeed. The chief talk naturally centred on the recent fight, and the terrible condition of the City of Blood.
"Now, Flint, as far as niggers go I'm not a bad prophet." This from the colonel. "And I'll tell you what will happen."
"Well, Fraser," said Flint, "heave round and give us your ideas."
"Well, then, I'm half-sorry now that I didn't hang that blood-drunkard of a king to begin with. But the king that the priests would have then placed on the stool called a throne might have been quite as bad, if not worse."
"True, Fraser, true."
"Do you think he will be influenced by that treaty?"
"About a week, perhaps."
"Just so."