A big Swede met me at the forecastle door, and grinned at me as I entered. “I tank youse’ll find us a good crew, Mr. Gore. Aye tank youse a good mate, sir,” said he.
“You mustn’t tank, Yohn,” I answered. “I’ll do the thinking for you. Let me take a look into your chest.”
His face fell, but he knew better than to refuse, so I opened it for him and disclosed two bottles of liquor and a heavy pistol, of all of which I carefully relieved him. The rest of the dunnage proved almost barren of spoil, and after giving the room a careful survey, I went out again. The smell of the fresh, salt sea was now in my nostrils and the gloomy life of the shore left behind. Ahead was the excitement and hope of a prosperous voyage in company of whom I began to suspect would prove pleasant passengers. The smells of the rigging, the tar, grease, and even the bilge as it was stirred up and came through the opening in the forward hatchway, recalled me to the life as of old, and the melancholy thoughts I had recently indulged in gave place to the most exhilarating ones.
“Sing, Dutchy,” I cried to a squat sailor, who was hauling doggedly upon a royal brace.
“I don’t got no tune, den, what?” said he, grinning.
“Aye tank I kin sing him,” said a Norwegian sailor, tailing on the line just ahead of him.
“Turn him loose, then,” I cried.
“Sing ye, Jezebel, sing,” cried O’Toole, coming up panting with the exertion of trying to break a topsail brace. “Sing, an’ stretch th’ line,” and he led off with “Whiskey Johnnie,” into which the rest roared a chorus.
Four men grabbed the mainskysail halyard and sent the light yard whisking up the masthead. The fellow who had loosed the sail had not left the yard and was sent aloft along with it, the men below trying to send him skyward with a rush.
Suddenly the halyard broke. The man on the yard gave a spring as it dropped under him. He shot outward, fell headlong downward, and just as we thought he would plunge headlong to the deck, a hundred feet below, he reached the backstay with one hand. With a power born of desperation, he grasped the line. His body swung around with the sweep of a whip-lash, but he hung on. Then his other hand reached the stay, and he slid quickly to the crosstrees. Down the ratlines he came on the run. Reaching the lanyard, he sprang upon the deck and dashed into the crowd of men who still stood gazing spellbound at his performance.