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Words: 50193 in 35 pages
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ay morning and those of the crew who were not on watch lay upon the foc'sle head, sat on the for'ad hatch, or still lay snoring in their bunks. A favoured few were lounging round the galley, some peeling potatoes--for which they would receive their reward in due course--and others helping them with good advice. From within the galley came the voice of "Slushy," the cook, bellowing out snatches of hymns intermingled with pungent profanities, each equally sincere.
"There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Emmanuel's veins,"
he roared. "Get to hell out o' this, you perishin' son of a swab!" he added to a fireman who was making a surreptitious effort to get at the hot water.
"Damn your 'ot water, you pasty-faced dough-walloper!" retorted the fireman.
Then followed a scuffle, more profanities, and the fireman performed an acrobatic feat which landed him in the scuppers.
"Put your lousy 'ead in 'ere again and I'll murder you," said the cook. "I won't 'ave no bloomin' bad language in 'ere," he added warningly to the others. "There's a damned sight too much of it on this bug-trap."
He again lifted up his voice in song.
"And sinners plunged beneath the flood, Lose all their guilty sta--a--ains."
He paused to administer a cutting admonition to one of his assistants.
"Lose all their guilty stains," he trilled forth, pouring the hot water in which potatoes had been boiled, into the iron kettle that held the crew's tea.
"What proof have we that this boat is a licensed privateer?" Skelt was saying--or rather, whispering--"only the Captain's word. We ain't seen his Letters of Marque and ain't likely to. Why?"
The orator paused as if for a reply. It came.
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