"We'll build a circular fort, by gosh!" cried Tyke. "An' build the back higher'n the front. How about it, Cap'n Rufe? Then if them swabs climb the hill to git the better of us, they can't shoot over."
"You're right, Tyke," agreed the master of the Bertha Hamilton.
"I don't believe," said Drew, "that Ditty and the men have many firearms. Nothing like these high-powered rifles, that's sure."
"That's so, Drew, I'm sure," said the captain promptly. "Now, boys, get to work," he added. "Roll 'em down! Here, Barker, you're chantey-man. Set 'em the pace."
Weirdly, echoing back from the wall of the jungle and hollowly from the hillside, the improvised chantey was raised by Barker, and the chorus line taken up by the other seamen as though they were jerking aloft the schooner's topsails.
"Oh, Bug-eye's dead an' gone below,
Oh, we says so, an' we hopes so;
Oh, Bug-eye's dead an' he'll go below
Oh, poor—ol'—man!
"He's deader'n the bolt on the fo'c'sle door,
Oh, we says so, an' we hopes so;
Oh, he'll never knock us flat no more,
Oh, poor—ol'—man!"
Under the impetus of this dirge with its innumerable verses the men rolled the boulders down. The fortification began to take form and give promise of shelter in time of need.
And there was no telling how soon that time might come!