Then came the chorus—
“We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors,
We’ll rant and we’ll roar across the salt seas,
Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England
From Ushant to Scilly ’tis forty-five leagues.”
“Thirty-five-thirty-five,” said Dick, petulantly. “Don’t tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai.”
“The first land we made it was called the Deadman,”
and they sang to the end very vigourously.
“That would be a better song if her head were turned the other way—to the Ushant light, for instance,” said the Nilghai.
“Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill,” said Torpenhow. “Give us something else, Nilghai. You’re in fine fog-horn form tonight.”
“Give us the “Ganges Pilot”; you sang that in the square the night before El-Maghrib. By the way, I wonder how many of the chorus are alive to-night,” said Dick.
Torpenhow considered for a minute. “By Jove! I believe only you and I.
Raynor, Vicery, and Deenes—all dead; Vincent caught smallpox in Cairo, carried it here and died of it. Yes, only you and I and the Nilghai.”