“His accordion,” said Ned.
“Yes—his accordium—”
“No, Billy, not accordium, but accordion.”
“Well, well—no matter. I don’t care a button what you calls it, so long as Jim plays it. Why, he’d make his fortin’ if he was to play that thing about the streets o’ Lun’on. Listen.”
Jim Frost deserved all the praise that the enthusiastic boy bestowed on him, for, besides possessing a fine ear and taste for music, and having taught himself to play well, he had a magnificent tenor voice, and took great delight in singing the beautiful hymns which at that time had been introduced to the fleet. On this particular day he was joined by his crew, whose voices—more or less tuneful—came rolling over the water in a great volume of melody.
“He’s got Singin’ Peter a-visitin’ him,” said Billy. “Don’t you hear him?”
“Ay, I hear him, boy. There’s no mistakin’ Singin’ Peter’s voice. I’d know it among a thousand.”
“If it’s hell here,” remarked Billy, with a great sigh of satisfaction, after the hymn was done, “it do seem like heaven over there. I only wish we had Jim Frost on board of us instead of that brute Gunter.”
“Don’t be hard on Gunter, Billy,” said Ned. “We don’t know what he’s got to bear. Some men are born, you see, wi’ narves that are for ever screwin’ at ’em, an’ ticklin’ of ’em up; an’ other men have narves that always keep smoothin’ of ’em down. The last are the pleasantest to have to do with, no doubt, but the others ain’t quite so bad as they look sometimes. Their bark is worse than their bite.”
“Hush!” exclaimed the boy, holding up a finger at the moment, for Jim Frost’s accordion again sent forth its rich tones in the prelude to a hymn. A few moments later and the tuneful voices came rolling towards them in that beautiful hymn, the chorus of which ends:—