out orders and
rapped out oaths from every angle upon their miserable heads.

Certainly, from what I had read, no ship of the old days ever proceeded
so sadly and blunderingly to sea. Ere long Mr. Mellaire joined Mr. Pike
in the struggle of directing the men. It was not yet eight in the
evening, and all hands were at work. They did not seem to know the
ropes. Time and again, when the half-hearted suggestions of the bosuns
had been of no avail, I saw one or the other of the mates leap to the
rail and put the right rope in the hands of the men.

These, on the deck, I concluded, were the hopeless ones. Up aloft, from
sounds and cries, I knew were other men, undoubtedly those who were at
least a little seaman-like, loosing the sails.

But on deck! Twenty or thirty of the poor devils, tailed on a rope that
hoisted a yard, would pull without concerted effort and with painfully
slow movements. "Walk away with it!" Mr. Pike would yell. And perhaps
for two or three yards they would manage to walk with the rope ere they
came to a halt like stalled horses on a hill. And yet, did either of the
mates spring in and add his strength, they were able to move right along
the deck without stopping. Either of the mates, old men that they were,
was muscularly worth half-a-dozen of the wretched creatures.

"This is what sailin's come to," Mr. Pike paused to snort in my ear.
"This ain't the place for an officer down here pulling and hauling. But
what can you do when the bosuns are worse than the men?"

"I thought sailors sang songs when they pulled," I said.

"Sure they do. Want to hear 'em?"

I knew there was malice of some sort in his voice, but I answered that
I'd like to very much.

"Here, you bosun!" Mr. Pike snarled. "Wake up! Start a song! Topsail
halyards!"

In the pause that followed I could have sworn that Sundry Buyers was
pressing his hands against his abdomen, while Nancy, infinite bleakness
freezing upon his face, was wetting his lips to begin.

Nancy it was who began, for from no other man, I was confident, could
have issued so sepulchral a plaint. It was unmusical, unbeautiful,
unlively, and indescribably doleful. Yet the words showed that it should
have ripped and crackled with high spirits and lawlessness, for the words
poor Nancy sang were:

"Away, way, way, yar,
We'll kill Paddy Doyle for bus boots."

"Quit it! Quit it!" Mr. Pike roared. "This ain't a funeral! Ain't
there one of you