“He'll want a good rest if Aulain does him up to-night,” said Capel with an evil grin.
CHAPTER XXIX
Nearly a hundred noisy but contented diggers filled Vale's hotel and store, all talking at once; and outside in the yard, seated on boxes, barrels, etc., were as many more, equally as well satisfied as those within. The impromptu and “free feed” of freshly-killed beef had been a great success, and now at seven o'clock, what Vale called “the harmony” began—to wit, music from a battered cornet, an asthmatic accordion, and a weird violin. There were, however, plenty of good singing voices in the company, and presently a big, fat-faced American negro, with a rich fruity voice, struck up a well-known mining song, “The Windlasses,” and the diggers thundered out the chorus:
“For I love the sound of the windlasses, And the cry, 'Look-out, below.'”
At its conclusion there was much applause, and then the negro, who was an ex-sailor, was pressed, very literally, for another song. One digger gripped him around the waist, and another seized his woolly poll and shook him.
“Sing, you beggar, sing! Give us the 'Arctic Fleet.'”
“Don' you be so familiar, sah! You common digger pusson! How dah you take liberties with a gentleman!” and the negro laughed good-naturedly as he was forced on his feet again. “And don' se singist get some refreshment fust?”
It was at once supplied, and then “Black Pete's” rich tones sounded out in their full strength as he began the whaleman's ditty:
“Oh, its advertised in Noo York town,
Likewise in Alban-ee,
For five hunder and fifty Yankee boys,
To join de whaling fleet
Singing, blow ye windy mornin's,
And blow ye winds, heigho,
Clear away de marnin' dews,
To de Arctic we mus' go,
To de Arctic we mus' go.”