"But why don't you like going to sea?" asked Desmond.
"Why? You're a landlubber, sir--meanin' no offence--or you wouldn't ax sich a foolish question. At sea 'tis all rope's end and salt pork, with Irish horse for a tit-bit."
"Irish horse?"
"Ay. That's our name for it. 'Cos why? Explain to the gen'leman, mateys."
With a laugh the men began to chant--
Salt horse, salt horse, what brought you here?
You've carried turf for many a year.
From Dublin quay to Ballyack
You've carried turf upon your back.
"That's the why and wherefore of it," added Bulger. "Cooks call it salt beef, same as French mounseers don't like the sound of taters an' calls 'em pummy detair; but we calls it Irish horse, which we know the flavour. Accordingly, notwithstandin' an' for that reason, if you axes the advice of an old salt, never you go to sea, matey."
"That's unfortunate," said Desmond with a smile, "because I expect to sail next Wednesday morning, high tide at five o'clock."
"Binks and barnacles! Be you agoin' to sail with us?"
"I hope so."