Instantly
she lifted a sweet contralto in that rollicking old ballad of the
sea--"Blow the Men Down."
For tinkers and tailors and lawyers and all,
Way! Aye! Blow the men down!
They ship for real sailors aboard the Black Ball,
Give me some time to blow the men down.
Round the windlass Cardigan walked, steadily and easily, and the
girl's eyes widened in wonder as he did the work of three powerful
men. When the ship had been warped in and the slack of the line made
fast on the bitts, she said:
"Please run for'd and help my father with the bow-lines. You're worth
three foremast hands. Indeed, I didn't expect to see a sailor on this
dock."
"I had to come around the Horn to get here, Miss," he explained, "and
when a man hasn't money to pay for his passage, he needs must work
it."
"I'm the second mate," she explained. "We had a succession of gales
from the Falklands to the Evangelistas, and there the mate got her in
irons and she took three big ones over the taffrail and cost us eight
men. Working short-handed, we couldn't get any canvas on her to speak
of--long voyage, you know, and the rest of the crew got scurvy."
"You're a brave girl," he told her.
"And you're a first-class A. B.," she replied. "If you're looking for
a berth, my father will be glad to ship you.
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