“Well, does that have anything to do with this performance?”
“Oh, it's only a little spree,” confessed the other. “It was planned out on our yacht. Old Epps made himself a mucker to-day by sassing some of the gents of the fleet, and the boys are handing him a little something. That's all! It's only fun!”
“According to my notion it's the kind of fun that hurts when a girl is concerned, Duncan.”
“Just as serious as ever, eh? Well, my notion is that a little good-natured fun never hurts a pretty girl—and they say this one is some looker! Oh, hold on a minute, Boyd!” The master of the Olenia had turned away and was about to give an order to his oarsmen. “You ought to stop long enough to hear that new song one of the gents on the Sunbeam has composed for the occasion. It's a corker. I heard 'em rehearsing it on our yacht.”
In spite of his impatient resentment on behalf of the daughter of Epps Candage, Captain Mayo remained. Just then the accredited minstrel of the yachtsmen stood up, balancing himself in a tender. He was clearly revealed by the lights, and was magnified by the aureole of tinted fog which surrounded him. He sang, in waltz time, in a fine tenor:
“Our Polly O,
O'er the sea you go;
Fairer than sunbeam, lovely as moon-gleam,
All of us love thee so!
While the breezes blow
To waft thee, Polly O,
We will be true to thee,
Crossing the blue to thee,
Polly—Polly!
Dear little Polly,
Polly—O-O-O!”
He finished the verse and then raised both arms with the gesture of a choral conductor.
“All together, now, boys!”
They sang with soul and vigor and excellent effect.
Ferocity nearly inarticulate, fury almost apoplectic, were expressed by the face above the weather-worn rail.