“Whistle!” said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. “I couldn’t whistle just now to save my life.”
“The mate don’t know what to do, and that was to be the signal,” said the cook. “He’s darn there with him givin’ ’im drink and amoosin’ ’im.”
“Well, you go and whistle it,” said the skipper.
The cook wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “’Ow does it go?” he inquired anxiously. “I never could remember toons.”
“Oh, go and tell Bill to do it!” said the skipper impatiently.
Summoned noiselessly by the cook, Bill came up from the forecastle, and on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started our noble anthem with a whistle of such richness and volume that the horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate like a charm, and he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too gently, with a hand which shook with excitement. Then, as quietly as possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings.
“He’s all right,” he said to the skipper breathlessly. “He’s a prisoner. He’s ’ad four goes o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to sleep.”
“Who let him go down the cabin?” demanded the skipper angrily. “It’s a fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come back and find people sitting all round my cabin.”
“He let hisself darn,” said the cook, who saw a slight opening advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day before, “an’ I was that surprised, not to say alarmed, that I dropped the large dish and smashed it.”
“What did he say?” inquired the skipper.