"Tar-a-ta! tar-a-ta!"
But Captain Pharo needed no stirring strain to his consciousness as he walked, with scarcely perceptible limp, to the middle of the floor.
That flowered jacket, the arnica bloom glowing like sunrise on the back! Those new trousers, of "middling" sacks, "Brand No. 1" proudly distinct upon the right leg!
"Give me sea-room here, give me sea-room," said the hero; "and jest wait till I git my spavins warmed up a little!"
A wide, clear swath was cut from the billows that surrounded Captain Pharo.
"Now then," said he, pulling his pipe from his pocket, and drawing a match in the usual informal way; "Poo! poo! hohum!—
strike up somethin' lively over there, Gurd. Give us 'The Wracker's Darter,' by clam!"
Gurdon, who had returned to relieve Fluke at the violin, good-naturedly struck up "The Wrecker's Daughter."