ithout my
seein' Leftenant Collins, so I thought I was to hear no more on it. When
the passengers began to muster on the poop, by the time we got out o'
Channel, I takes a look over the ladies, in coilin' up the ropes aft, or
at the wheel. I knowed the said girl at once by her good looks, and the
old fellow by his grumpy-yallow frontispiece. All on a sudden I takes
note of a figger coming up from the cuddy, which I made out at once for
my Master Ned, spite of his wig and a pair o' high-heeled boots, as gave
him the walk of a chap treading amongst eggs. When I hears him lisp out
to the skipper at the round-house if there was any fear of wind, 'twas
all I could do to keep the juice in my cheek. Away he goes up to
windward, holding on by everything, to look over the bulwarks behind his
sweetheart, givin' me a glance over his shoulder. At night I see the two
hold a sort of a collogue abaft the wheel, when I was on my trick at the
helm. After a while there was a row got up amongst the passengers, with
the old naboob and the skipper, to find out who it was that kept a
singing every still night in the first watch, alongside of the ladies'
cabin, under the poop. It couldn't be cleared up, hows'ever, who it was.
All sorts o' places they said it comed from--mizen-chains,
quarter-galleries, lower-deck ports, and davit-boats. But what put the
old hunks most in a rage was, the songs was every one on 'em such as
"Rule Britannia," "Bay of Biscay," "Britannia's Bulwarks," and "All in
the Downs." The captain was all at sea about it, and none of the men
would say anything, for by all accounts 'twas the best pipe at a
sea-song as was to be heard. For my part, I knowed pretty well what was
afloat. One night a man comed for'ard from the wheel, after steering his
dog-watch out, and "Well I'm blessed, mates," says he on the fok'sle,
"but that chap aft yonder with the lady--he's about the greenest hand
I've chanced to come across! What d'ye think I hears him say to old
Yallowchops an hour agone?" "What was it, mate?" I says. Says he, "'Do
ye know, Sar Chawls, is the hoshun reely green at the line--_green_ ye
know, Sar Chawls, _reely_ green?' 'No, sir,' says the old naboob, ''tis
blue.' 'Whoy, ye don't sa--ay so!' says the young chap, pullin' a long
face." "Why, Jim," another hand drops in, "that's the very chap as sings
them first-rate sea-songs of a night! I seed him myself come out o' the
mizen-chains!" "Hallo!" says another at this, "then the