He was on the forecastle in a jiffy, and the thunder of his voice went along the deck and brought all hands to the windlass as if a line had pulled each man to his place. The boatswain’s pipe shrilled, the pilot’s face, coloured like mahogany, took an anxious expression; and then clank! clank! clank! went the windlass, followed in a moment by a hoarse song, which at regular intervals burst into a chorus:—
“And when you come to the dockyard gates,
Yo, boys, yo!
You’ll find that Sal for her true love waits,
Heave, my bully-boys, heave!
Then, heave my boys, oh, heave together!
Yo, boys, yo!
And get her out o’ the stormy weather!
Heave, my bully-boys, heave!”
Then came such cries as these:—