“It’s called—it’s called ‘The Dirge of the Salt Codfish,’” answered Dan soberly. “Are you ready, Tommy?”
“All ready.”
“Let her go!”
Whereupon they began to recite with serious faces and ludicrous lack of vocal expression, illustrating the “dirge” with wooden gestures.
“They come in three-pound, five-pound, and ten-pound packages,” chanted the pair, “also in glass jars. A rubber band is placed around the top, the air is forced out by a vacuum machine, and the cover is clamped on. To remove the cover, you puncture the lid!”
“Where’d you get that?” laughed Nelson.
“The fellow that showed us around the fish shop told it to us. It’s the way they put up their codfish. Isn’t it great? Want us to say it again?”
“Yes, and say it slow.”
For the next ten minutes “The Dirge of the Salt Codfish” had things its own way, Nelson and Bob insisting on learning it by heart. When they could all four say it in unison, standing in a row like a quartet of idiots, they were satisfied. Then the berths were made up and, after Dan had satisfied himself which was the strongest one and therefore best suited to Tom, they undressed and put out the lights. Of course they didn’t go to sleep very soon; things were still too novel for that. They talked and laughed, quieted down and woke up again, recited “The Dirge of the Salt Codfish,” and—well, finally went to sleep. Some time later—no one ever knew just when, since the clock refused to ring out any information—Bob and Dan were awakened by the sound of some one blundering around the stateroom.
“Who—who’s that?” asked Dan in startled tones, sitting up in his berth with a jerk.