Though my knowledge was all by touch--as, for example, when Pyecroft
led my surrendered hand to the base of some bulging sponson, or when my
palm closed on the knife-edge of the stem and patted it timidly--yet I
felt lonely and unprotected as the enormous, helpless ship was withdrawn,
and we drifted away into the void where voices sang:
Tom Pearce, Tom Pearce, lend me thy gray mare,
All along, out along, down along lea!
I want for to go to Widdicombe Fair
With Bill Brewer, Sam Sewer, Peter Gurney, Harry Hawke,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley an' all!
"That's old Sinbad an' 'is little lot from the _Agatha_! Give way, Alf!
_You_ might sing somethin', too."
"I'm no burnin' Patti. Ain't there noise enough for you, Pye?"
"Yes, but it's only amateurs. Give me the tones of 'earth and 'ome. Ha!
List to the blighter on the 'orizon sayin' his prayers, Navy-fashion.
'Eaven 'elp me argue that way when I'm a warrant-officer!"
We headed with little lapping strokes toward what seemed to be a fair-
sized riot.
"An' I've 'eard the _Devolution_ called a happy ship, too," said Pyecroft.
"Just shows 'ow a man's misled by prejudice. She's peevish--that's what
she is--nasty-peevish. Prob'ly all because the _Agathites_ are scratching
'er paint. Well, rub along, Alf. I've got the lymph!"
A voice, which Mr. Pyecroft assured me belonged to a chief carpenter, was
speaking through an aperture (starboard bow twelve-pounder on the lower
deck).
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