A Storm and a Dismal State of Things on Board the Pharos.

 

From what has been said at the close of the last chapter, it will not surprise the reader to be told that the storm which blew during that night had no further effect on Ruby Brand than to toss his hair about, and cause a ruddier glow than usual to deepen the tone of his bronzed countenance.

 

It was otherwise with many of his hapless comrades, a few of whom had also received letters that day, but whose pleasure was marred to some extent by the qualms within.

 

Being Saturday, a glass of rum was served out in the evening, according to custom, and the men proceeded to hold what is known by the name of “Saturday night at sea.”

 

This being a night that was usually much enjoyed on board, owing to the home memories that were recalled, and the familiar songs that were sung; owing, also, to the limited supply of grog, which might indeed cheer, but could not by any possibility inebriate, the men endeavoured to shake off their fatigue, and to forget, if possible, the rolling of the vessel.

 

The first effort was not difficult, but the second was not easy. At first, however, the gale was not severe, so they fought against circumstances bravely for a time.

 

“Come, lads,” cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic desperation, when they had all assembled below, “let’s drink to sweethearts and wives.”

 

“Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!” responded the men. “Hip, hip!”

 

The cheer that followed was a genuine one.

 

“Now for a song, boys,” cried one of the men, “and I think the last arrivals are bound to sing first.”

 

“Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you’re in for it,” said the smith, who sat near his assistant.

 

“What shall I sing?” enquired Ruby.

 

“Oh! let me see,” said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who endeavoured to recall something. “Could you come Beet’oven’s symphony on B flat?”

 

“Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe,” cried O’Connor, “sure the young man can only sing on the sharp kays; ain’t he always sharpin’ the tools, not to speak of his appetite?”

 

“You’ve a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend,” said Dumsby, in a tone of reproof.

 

“Hallo! stop your jokes,” cried the smith; “if you treat us to any more o’ that sort o’ thing we’ll have ye dipped over the side, and hung up to dry at the end o’ the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my tulip!”

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