There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in yellow oilskins, descended.
“Ye’re just in time, Disko. Fwhat’s she doin’ outside?”
“Jest this!” He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave of the We’re Here .
“We’re singin’ to kape our breakfasts down. Ye’ll lead, av course, Disko,” said Long Jack.
“Guess there ain’t more’n ’baout two old songs I know, an’ ye’ve heerd them both.”
His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to make the tune and words fit a little:
“There is a crack packet—crack packet o’ fame, She hails from Noo York, an’ the Dreadnought ’s her name. You may talk o’ your fliers—Swallowtail and Black Ball— But the Dreadnought ’s the packet that can beat them all.
“Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey, Because of the tugboat to take her to sea; But when she’s off soundings you shortly will know
“Now the Dreadnought she’s howlin’ crost the Banks o’ Newfoundland, Where the water’s all shallow and the bottom’s all sand. Sez all the little fishes that swim to and fro:
There were scores of verses, for he worked the Dreadnought every mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously as though