“What ship are you taking us to?” a man asked.
“Solita, Liverpool,” the mate said. “I guess the lid’s off the Tenderloin to-night?”
“They’re playing hell all over.”
“Give way, sons,” the mate said. “Come, put your weights on.”
They pulled on over the sea in the moonlight towards the grove of masts. All were silent now, from weariness and bitterness; there was no sound except the gurgle and wash of the water, the grunt of the oars in the crutches, and sometimes a church-bell, or a volley of shots from the city. The mate who was steering began to croon a hymn as he watched the Solita’s riding-light:
Give me that old time religion,
Give me that old time religion,
Give me that old time religion,
It’s good enough for me.
Singing thus at his hymn, which could be made to last for a day in case of need, he brought his boat to the gangway under the lean iron flank of the Solita. The Captain looked down upon him from the poop rail.