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 foc’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 machette.

“’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—­Swallowtail 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 tug-boat to take her to sea;

    But when she’s off soundings you shortly will know

(Chorus.)

    She’s the Liverpool packet—­ 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 and fro: 

(Chorus.)

    ‘She’s the Liverpool packet—­ Lord, let her go!’”,