When the boatswain and I got back to the forecastle, carrying the grog-tub, we found the company as we had left it, except that there was a peculiarly bland expression on every man’s face as he listened to a song that the cook was singing.  It was a very love-lorn, lamentable, and lengthy song, three qualities which alone would recommend it to any audience of Jack Tars, as I have since had many occasions to observe.  The intense dolefulness of the ditty was not diminished by the fact that the cook had no musical ear, and having started on a note that was no note in particular, he flattened with every long-drawn lamentation till the ballad became more of a groan than a song.  When the grog-tub was deposited, Dennis beckoned to the boatswain, and we made our way to his side.

“Your cook’s a vocal genius, anyhow, bo’sun,” said he.  “But don’t ye think we’d do more justice to our accomplishments, and keep in tune, if we’d an accompaniment?  Have ye such a thing as a fiddle about ye?”

The boatswain was delighted.  Of course there was a fiddle, and I was despatched for it.  I should find it hanging on a hook at the end of the plate-rack, and if the bow was not beside it it would be upon the shelf, and there used to be a lump of resin and a spare string or two in an empty division of the spice-box.  The whole kit had belonged to a former cook, a very musical nigger, who had died at sea, and bequeathed his violin to his ship.  Sambo had been well liked, and there were some old hands would be well pleased to hear his fiddle once more.

It took me some little time to find everything, and when I got back to Dennis another song had begun.  A young sailor I did not know was singing it, and the less said about it the better, except that it very nearly led to a row.  It was by way of being a comic song, but except for one line which was rather witty as well as very nasty, there was nothing humorous about it, unless that it was funny that any one could have been indecent enough to write it, and any one else unblushing enough to sing it.  I am ashamed to say I had heard some compositions of a similar type at Snuffy’s, and it filled me with no particular amazement to hear a good deal of sniggering in the circle round the spittoon, though I felt miserably uncomfortable, and wondered what Mr. O’Moore would think.  I had forgotten Alister.

I was not likely soon to forget his face as I saw it, the blood swelling his forehead, and the white wrath round his lips, when he gripped me by the shoulder, saying, in broader Scotch than usual, “Come awa’ wi’ ye, laddie!  I’ll no let ye stay.  Come awa’ oot of this accurst hole.  I wonder he doesna think black burning shame of himsel’ to stand up before grey-heided men and fill a callant’s ears with filth like yon.”

Happily just indignation had choked Alister’s voice as well as his veins, and I don’t think many of the company heard this too accurate summary of the situation.  The boatswain did, but before he could speak, Dennis O’Moore had sprung to the ground between them, and laying the fiddle over his shoulder played a wild sort of jig that most effectually and unceremoniously drowned the rest of the song, and diverted the attention of the men.