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“If lubberly landsmen, to gratitude strangers, Still curse their unfortunate stars; Why, what would they say did they try but the dangers Encounter’d by true-hearted tars? If life’s vessel they put ’fore the wind, or they tack her, Or whether bound here or there, Give ’em sea-room, good-fellowship, grog, and tobaker, Well, then, damme if Jack cares where!” |
“What d’ye think of that, Ben?” said Mr. Binks, as he finished his ditty, and sucked away on his pipe.
“Why, Mr. Mate,” replied Ben, as he gave the wheel a spoke or two to windward and glanced at the binnacle, “the words is first-rate, but it seems to me your singing gear is a bit out o’ condition, and I thought you wos a prayin’; but the fact is,” concluded Ben, apologetically, “that whenever I hears grog and tobaker jined together, I likes to see them in my fist.”
“Oh! you would, eh? Well, shipmate, turn and turn about is fair play; so here, just take a pull at the pipe, and I’ll step to the cuddy for the bottle, and we’ll have a little sniffler all around!”
Saying this, Mr. Binks swung off the rail, handed Ben the pipe, and after an absence of a few moments, he returned with a square case-bottle and a pewter mug.
“Now, Ben,” said he, “this ’ere is not a practice, as you know, I often is guilty of; but you bein’ a keerful hand and a stiddy helmsman, and port here close aboard, I’ve no objections to take a toss with ye.” Then pouring out a moderate quantity of the fluid, the mate handed it to Ben, who, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and with one hand on the king-spoke of the wheel and one eye at the compass-card, threw his head back and pitched the dram down his throat.
“My sarvice to ye, sir!” said Ben, as he smacked his lips and then shut them tight together, fearful lest a breath of the precious liquid might escape; “a little of that stuff goes a great ways.”
Mr. Binks hereupon measured himself off an allowance, and touching Ben on the shoulder, raised the pewter to his lips. Before, however, draining the cup, he tuned his pipes once more, and croaked forth in this strain:
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“While up the shrouds the sailor goes, Or ventures on the yard, The landsman, who no better knows, Believes his lot is hard. But Jack with smiles each danger meets; Casts anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drink his can of grog!” |