‘Which is the better quarter-boat. Bates?’
‘The aftermost.’
‘See if it’s all right with her.’
The mate sprang upon a hencoop and got into the boat, where his figure was lost. He came out after a few minutes and reported everything in its place. Will returned; he said that the starboard scuttle-butt was half full, took the beaker out of the boat and went forward. When this was filled he took the beaker from the other boat, filled and stowed it in the boat we meant to use.
Just then a hush fell upon the people below. It startled one, so suddenly did it come on top of the noise. The skylights lay wide open; I stepped to one and looked down. Some of the convicts already lay with their heads buried in their arms upon the table, motionless in deep, drunken sleep. Others who were within the compass of my gaze leaned back, staring in the stupefaction of drink with fixed eyes. A few lay like dead men upon the deck. But the great mass were still wide awake, full of the fever of drink and the life of their own hideous spirits; as many as I could see were all looking aft where Abram sat, and I had not been watching a minute when Abram, whose deep bass voice, considerably thickened and deepened yet by the drams he had drained, roared out the following song (I caught some of the words and long afterward met with the verses):
The prize-fighter sang it thus:
As clever Tob Pitch, while the rabble was bawli’g,
Rode stately through ’Olbord to die id his calli’g,
He stopped at the George for a bottle of sack,
A’d probised to pay for it whed he cabe back.