He was nearly late to mess. Already the men were assembled around the long table and were helping themselves to “goldfish” and hot biscuits.
“Boys,” Johnny smiled, “I’ve been downtown and brought home a new record for the phonograph. We’ll hear it in the clubroom after mess.”
“What’s the name of it?” inquired Dave Tower, all interest at once, as, indeed, they all were.
“Don’t know,” said Johnny, “but I bet it’s a good one.”
Mess over, they adjourned to the “clubroom,” a large room, roughly but comfortably furnished with homemade easy chairs, benches and tables, and supplied with all the reading matter in camp.
Many pairs of curious eyes turned to the phonograph in the corner as Johnny, after winding the machine, carefully placed the disk in position, adjusted the needle, and with a loud “A-hem!” started the machine in motion.
There followed the usual rattle and thump as the needle cleared its way to the record.
Every man sat bolt upright, ears and eyes strained, when from the woody throat came the notes of a clear voice:
| “Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest, Yo—ho—ho, and a bottle of rum. Fifteen men and the dark and damp, My men ’tis better to shun.” |
Again the machine appeared to clear its throat.