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For it's windy weather," etc.

Tom Platt seemed to be hunting for something. Dan crouched lower,
but sang louder:

"Up jumped the flounder that swims to the ground.
Chuckle-head! Chuckle-head!
Mind where ye sound!"

Tom Platt's huge rubber boot whirled across the fo'c'sle and
caught Dan's uplifted arm. There was war between the man and the
boy ever since Dan had discovered that the mere whistling of that
tune would make him angry as he heaved the lead.

"Thought I'd fetch yer," said Dan, returning the gift with
precision. "Ef you don't like my music, git out your fiddle. I
ain't goin' to lie here all day an' listen to you an' Long Jack
arguin' 'baout candles. Fiddle, Tom Platt; or I'll learn Harve
here the tune!"

Tom Platt leaned down to a locker and brought up an old white
fiddle. Manuel's eye glistened, and from somewhere behind the
pawl-post he drew out a tiny, guitar-like thing with wire strings,
which he called a nachette.

"'Tis a concert," said Long Jack, beaming through the smoke. "A
reg'lar Boston concert."

There was a burst of spray as the hatch opened, and Disko, in
yellow oilskins, descended.

"Ye're just in time, Disko. Fwhat's she doin' outside?"

"Jest this!" He dropped on to the lockers with the push and heave
of the "We're Here".

"We're singin' to kape our breakfasts down. Ye'll lead, av course,
Disko," said Long Jack.

"Guess there ain't more'n 'baout two old songs I know, an' ye've
heerd them both."

His excuses were cut short by Tom Platt launching into a most
dolorous tune, like unto the moaning of winds and the creaking of
masts. With his eyes fixed on the beams above, Disko began this
ancient, ancient ditty, Tom Platt flourishing all round him to
make the tune and words fit a little:

"There is a crack packet - crack packet o' fame,
She hails from Noo York, an' the Dreadnought's her name.
You may talk o' your fliers - Swallow-tail and Black Ball -
But the Dreadnought's the packet that can beat them all.

"Now the Dreadnought she lies in the River Mersey,
Because of the tugboat to take her to sea;
But when she's off soundings you shortly will know
(Chorus.)
She's the Liverpool packet - O Lord, let her go!

"Now the Dreadnought she's howlin' 'crost the Banks o' Newfoundland,
Where the water's all shallow and the bottom's all sand.
Sez all the little fishes that swim to an' fro:
(Chorus.)
'She's the Liverpool packet -O Lord, let her go!'"

There were scores of verses, for he worked the Dreadnought every
mile of the way between Liverpool and New York as conscientiously
as though he were on her deck, and the accordion pumped and the
fiddle squeaked beside him. Tom Platt followed with something
about "the rough and tough McGinn, who would pilot the vessel in."
Then they called on Harvey, who felt very flattered, to contribute
to the entertainment; but all that he could remember were some
pieces of "Skipper Ireson's Ride" that he had been taught at the

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