“The song of Fin McCoul,” said the cook, “when he wass going to Norway.”
His English was not thick, but all clear-cut, as though it came from a phonograph.
“Faith, I’ve been to Norway, but I didn’t make that unwholesim noise. ’Tis like some of the old songs, though,” said Long Jack, sighing.
“Don’t let’s hev another ’thout somethin’ between,” said Dan; and the accordion struck up a rattling, catchy tune that ended:
“It’s six an’ twenty Sundays sence las’ we saw the land,
- With fifteen hunder quintal,
- An’ fifteen hunder quintal,
- ‘Teen hunder toppin’ quintal,
‘Twix’ old ’Queereau an’ Grand!”
“Hold on!” roared Tom Platt. “D’ye want to nail the trip, Dan? That’s Jonah sure, ’less you sing it after all our salt’s wet.”
“No, ’tain’t, is it, Dad? Not unless you sing the very las’ verse. You can’t learn me anything on Jonahs!”
“What’s that?” said Harvey. “What’s a Jonah?”
“A Jonah’s anything that spoils the luck. Sometimes it’s a man—sometimes it’s a boy—or a bucket. I’ve known a splittin’-knife Jonah two trips till we was on to her,” said Tom Platt. “There’s all sorts o’ Jonahs. Jim Bourke was one till he was drowned on Georges. I’d never ship with Jim Bourke, not if I was starvin’. There wuz a green dory on the Ezra Flood . Thet was a Jonah, too, the worst sort o’ Jonah. Drowned four men, she did, an’ used to shine fiery O, nights in the nest.”