Coke, familiar with De Sylva's resources as a debater, and by no means unwilling to see Hozier "taken down a peg," as he phrased it; eager, too, to witness the Brazilian officer's discomfiture if the second mate "handed it to him," thought it was time to assert himself.
"I'm goin' to 'ave a nap," he announced. "Either you or Watts must take 'old. W'ich is it to be?"
"No need to ask Mr. Hozier any such question," said the suave Dom Corria. "You can trust him implicitly. He is with us now—to the death. Captain San Benavides, a word with you."
"South a bit," repeated the skipper. "Call me at two bells in the second dog."
He was turning to leave the bridge with the Brazilians when a cheery voice came from a gangway beneath.
"Yah, yah, mine frent—that's the proper lubricant. I wouldn't give you tuppence a dozen for your bloomin' lager. Well, just a freshener. Thanks. Ik danky shun!"
"You spik Tcherman vare goot," was the reply.
"Talk a little of all sorts. Used to sing a Jarman song once. What was that you was a-hummin' in your cabin? Nice chune. I've a musical ear meself."
Someone sang a verse in a subdued baritone, tremulous with sentiment. The melody was haunting, the words almost pathetic under the conditions of life on board the disheveled Unser Fritz. They told of Vienna, the city beloved of its sons.
Es gibt nur eine Kaiser Stadt,
Es gibt nur eine Wien.