And it’s blowy weather; When the winds begin to blow, pipe all hands together!”
Dan went on, with a cautious look at Tom Platt, holding the accordion low in the bunk:
“Up jumped the cod with his chuckle-head, Went to the main-chains to heave at the lead; For it’s windy weather,” etc.
Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower, but sang louder:
“Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground. Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head! Mind where ye sound!”
Tom Platt’s huge rubber boot whirled across the foc’sle and caught Dan’s uplifted arm.
There was war between the man and the boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead.
“Thought I’d fetch yer,” said Dan, returning the gift with precision. “Ef you don’t like my music, git out your fiddle. I ain’t goin’ to lie here all day an’ listen to you an’ Long Jack arguin’ ’baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I’ll learn Harve here the tune!”
Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white fiddle. Manuel’s eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings, which he called a machete .
“ ’Tis a concert,” said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. “A reg’lar Boston concert.”