"Fishin' the anchor," said Bill pensively; "_that's_ what they're
doin'. She carries her catheads amidships. The ship's all right,
once you get the hang of her."
"Bill, we _must_ 'ave him!"
"Hush it, you swab! He's beginning again."
"But when among the heaving clouds,
Aloft, alone, with folded arms,
He hangs _her_ portrait in the shrouds
And feeds on Susan's glowing charms,
To th' horizon
Soft his sighs on
Angel wings the zephyrs fan,
While his feelings,
Deep revealings,
Prove that Jack remains a _Man_!"
"'Ear that, Bill?"
"O' course I 'ears it. Why not? I _knew_ there was something funny
wi' them shrouds. They carries the family portraits on 'em--it's all
right, I tell you."
"But 'feeds,' he said."
"Meanin' the picter; though maybe they sling the meat-safe there as
well. They _ought_ to."
"They _couldn't_!"
"Why not? Well, then, p'raps they strikes it now and then _in_ a
gale--off Pernambuco--along wi' the t'gallant yards. Stow yer talk,
Ben Jope, and let a man listen."
The audience encored Mr. Sturge's song vociferously; and twice he had
to repeat it before they would suffer him to turn again and defy the
still scowling Lieutenant.
"Ay, sir; the British seaman, before whose collective valour the
crowned tyrants of Yurope shrink with diminished heads, dares to
proclaim himself a _Man_, and in despite of any petty tyrant of the
quarter-deck.
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