Splash—the cable rumbled through the hause-hole.
“Now here are we brought up in paradise,” quoth the doctor.
“Curukity coo-curukity coo,” sung out a great bushy-whiskered sailor from the crows nest, who turned out to be no other than our old friend Timothy Tailtackle, quite juvenilffied by the laughing scene. “Here am I, Jack, a booby amongst the singing-birds,” crowed he to one of his messmates in the maintop, as he clutched a branch of a tree in his hand, and swung himself up into it. But the ship, as Old Nick would have it, at the very instant dropped astern a yew yards in swinging to her anchor, and that so suddenly, that she left him on his perch in the tree, converting his jest, poor fellow, into melancholy earnest. “Oh Lord, sir!” sung out Timotheus, in a great quandary. “Captain, do heave ahead a bit—Murder—I shall never get down again! Do, Mr Yerk, if you please, sir!” And there he sat twisting and craning himself about, and screwing his features into combinations evincing the most comical perplexity.
The captain, by the way of a bit of fun, pretended not to hear him. “Maintop, there,” quoth he.
The midshipman in the top answered him, “Ay, ay, sir.”
“Not you, Mr Reefpoint; the captain of the top I want.”
“He is not in the top, sir,” responded little Reefpoint, chuckling like to choke himself.
“Where the devil is he, sir?”
“Here, sir,” squealed Timothy, his usual gruff voice spindling into a small cheep through his great perplexity. “Here, sir.”
“What are you doing there, sir? Come down this moment, sir. Rig out the main-topmast-studding-sail-boom, Mr Reefpoint, and tell him to slew himself down by that long water-withe.”