Wilson told her all he knew and having finished, watched her anxiously as she drew back a little and tapped on the deck with her foot.
A badly-blended chorus, making up in strength what it lacked in harmony, sounded on the quay, and gradually coming nearer, stopped at the Seamew for a final shout. The finale was rendered by the cook and Dick with much vehemence, while Sam, excited by his potations, danced madly before them.
“Silence up there!” shouted the skipper sternly, as Annis shrank away.
“A’ right, sir,” hiccupped Dick solemnly. “I’m lookin’ after them. Mind how you break your neck, Sam.”
Thus adjured, Sam balanced himself on the edge of the quay, and executing a double shuffle on the very brink of it by way of showing his complete mastery over his feet, fell into the rigging and descended. He was followed by Dick and the cook, both drunk, and both preternaturally solemn.
“Get below,” said the skipper sharply.
“Ay, ay, sir,” said Dick, with a lurch. “Come on, Sam, we—ain’t wanted—here.”
“It’s all your damned dancing, Sam!” said the cook—who had ever an eye for beauty—plaintively.
“Will you get below?” roared the maddened skipper, giving him a push.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, turning to Annis as they disappeared; “everything seems to be going wrong to-night.”