By this time the other men had got the hang of the song, and when Joe started the next stanza they joined in, trolling the tune (they knew not the words as yet) in voices high and low, rough and coarse for the most part, and with more heartiness than melody.  This happy thought of Joe’s cured our dumps and put us all in a good temper, and for the rest of that morning we sat singing songs, and listening to the tootling of Runnles’ flute, when the little man could be prevailed on to treat us to a solo.

“You be mighty bashful for a sailor man,” said Joe at the end of the concert, “partickler as your name be Joe like mine, but we won’t let ’ee hide your talents any more, split my braces if we will.”

It was on the night of that day that Vetch got his thrashing.  We had gone early to our dormitory because of the rain, and being unable to sleep for the cold, one of the men suggested that Runnles should give us a tune.

“‘Tis comfortin’ to the spirits,” said the man, a big fellow known to us as the bosun:  his name was Peter Wiggett.

Runnles, evidently gratified at this mark of appreciation, put his flute together and began to pipe the tune of Mr. Ackroyd’s famous song of the fight in ’92 when Admiral Russell beat the French.  This, to be sure, was rather inspiriting than soothing, and thus perhaps there was a shadow of excuse for Vetch when he called out from under his coverlet (he lay in the next bed): 

“Cease that squealing, hang you, and let a man get to sleep.”

“Belay there!” shouted the bosun.

“Pipe away, Runnles, and we’ll love you, my hearty.”

Runnles struck up again, but he had not gone far (it was to the line, “To meet the gallant Russell in combat on the deep”) when the fluting suddenly ceased, and we heard a cry that was certainly a squeal.  Vetch had got out of bed in the dark and, snatching the flute from Runnles’ hand, caught him by the throat.  I sprang up from Runnles’ side, but the bosun from the bed beyond was before me.

“Avast, you lubber!” he cries, flinging himself on Vetch; “I thought we should grapple one day:  now I’ll bring you up by the head, you swine.”

And with that he took Vetch with the left hand, and belabored him with the right until the poor wretch fairly howled for mercy.  Then he threw him on to his bed (with some damage, I fear, to Dilly, who shared it), and bade Runnles play up:  but the little man was so much upset at the turn affairs had taken that he declared his lips were too dry to blow a note, and indeed it was several days before he could be prevailed on to flute again.

Chapter 15:  The Bass Viol.