"Come alive, Twisty, old mate," Kendric called to him. "Limber up and give us a good old deep-sea chantey!"
Twisty stood where he was, eyeing him curiously.
"I want to talk to you, Jim," he said. His voice like his look told of excitement repressed.
"It's early," retorted Kendric, "and talk will keep. A night like this was meant for other things than for two old fools like you and me to sit in a corner with long faces. Strike up the chantey."
"You're busted," said Barlow sharply; "You've had your fling and you've shot your wad. Come along with me. You know what shore I'm headin' to. You know I've got my hooks in that old tub down to San Diego——-"
"There's a craft in San Diego,"
improvised Kendric lightly.
"With no cargo in her hold,
And old Twisty Barlow's leased her
For to fill her up with Gold.
And he'd go a buccaneerin', privateerin', wildly steerin'
For the beaches where the sun shines on whole banks of
blazin' pearls----"
But his rhythm was getting away from him and his rhymes petered out and he stopped, laughing while around him men clamored for more.
"Oh, there'll be a tale to tell when Twisty sails back," he conceded. "But until he's under way there's no tale to tell and so what's the use of talk? A song's better; walk her up, Twisty, old mate."