‘Here I am, sir,’ replied a voice close to in the dimness.
‘Well,’ I said, cheerily, ‘what did I tell you? Here’s Christmas Day well on for through, everything snug—if damp—and nothing happening. Give him a stiff nip, one of you, and let us drink to better times, and no more nonsense. Once we’re round the corner, yonder, this trip will soon be over.’
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ replied Ashby, as he emptied the pannikin, which was being so carefully passed around by the one appointed, who, holding on like grim death, after every poured-out portion, held the bottle up to the light to see how the contents were faring. ‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said he. ‘But Christmas Day isn’t done yet.’
Even as he spoke, a form clad in glistening oilskins came through the water-curtain that was roaring over the break of the fo’k’stle, and, leaning upon the windlass, sang out,—
[296]
]‘You there, Ashby?’
‘Ay, ay, sir,’ replied the seaman.
‘Lie out, then,’ continued the mate, for he it was, ‘and put another gasket around that inner jib! It’s coming adrift! Bear a hand, now!’
The ship for a minute seemed to stand quite still, as if waiting to hear the answer, and each man turned to look at his neighbour.
Then Ashby, jumping down, with a curious set expression on his face, walked up to the mate and said very loud,—
‘Don’t send a man where you’d be frightened to go yourself.’