“Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; “there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent, neither.”
“There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”
He walked round the deck to see that everything was snug and ship-shape, and got back to the mate just as a howl of surprising weirdness was heard proceeding from the neighbouring stairs.
“I’m s’prised at Berrow allowing his men to make that noise,” said the skipper waggishly. “Our chaps are there too, I think. I can hear Sam’s voice.”
“So can I,” said the mate, with emphasis.
“Seems to be talking rather loud,” said the master of the Thistle, knitting his brows.
“Sounds as though he’s trying to sing,” said the mate, as, after some delay, a heavily-laden boat put off from the stairs and made slowly for them. “No, he ain’t; he’s screaming.”
There was no longer any doubt about it. The respectable and greatly-trusted Sam was letting off a series of wild howls which would have done credit to a penny-gaff Zulu, and was evidently very much out of temper about something.
“Ahoy, Thistle! Ahoy!” bellowed the waterman, as he neared the schooner. “Chuck us a rope?-quick!”
The mate threw him one, and the boat came alongside. It was then seen that another waterman, using impatient and deplorable language, was forcibly holding Sam down in the boat.