Then Manuel touched the jangling, jarring little machete to a queer tune, and sang something in Portuguese about “ Nina, innocente! ” ending with a full-handed sweep that brought the song up with a jerk.
Then Disko obliged with his second song, to an old-fashioned creaky tune, and all joined in the chorus. This is one stanza:
“Now Aprile is over and melted the snow, And outer Noo Bedford we shortly must tow; Yes, out o’ Noo Bedford we shortly must clear, We’re the whalers that never see wheat in the ear.”
Here the fiddle went very softly for a while by itself, and then:
“Wheat-in-the-ear, my truelove’s posy blowin, Wheat-in-the-ear, we’re goin’ off to sea; Wheat-in-the-ear, I left you fit for sowin, When I come back a loaf o’ bread you’ll be!”
That made Harvey almost weep, though he could not tell why. But it was much worse when the cook dropped the potatoes and held out his hands for the fiddle.
Still leaning against the locker door, he struck into a tune that was like something very bad but sure to happen whatever you did. After a little he sang, in an unknown tongue, his big chin down on the fiddle-tail, his white eyeballs glaring in the lamplight.
Harvey swung out of his bunk to hear better; and amid the straining of the timbers and the wash of the waters the tune crooned and moaned on, like lee surf in a blind fog, till it ended with a wail.
“Jimmy Christmas! Thet gives me the blue creevles,” said Dan. “What in thunder is it?”