As these various signs of life and activity obtruded themselves upon the
skipper of the Smiling Jane, his wrath rose higher and higher as he
looked around the wet, deserted deck of his own little craft. Then he
walked forward and thrust his head down the forecastle hatchway.
As he expected, there was a complete sleeping chorus below; the deep
satisfied snoring of half-a-dozen seamen, who, regardless of the tide
and their captain's feelings, were slumbering sweetly, in blissful
ignorance of all that the Lancet might say upon the twin subjects of
overcrowding and ventilation.
"Below there, you lazy thieves!" roared the captain; "tumble up, tumble
up!"
The snores stopped. "Ay, ay!" said a sleepy voice. "What's the matter,
master?"
"Matter!" repeated the other, choking violently. "Ain't you going to
sail to-night?"
"To-night!" said another voice, in surprise. "Why, I thought we wasn't
going to sail till Wen'sday."
Not trusting himself to reply, so careful was he of the morals of his
men, the skipper went and leaned over the side and communed with the
silent water. In an incredibly short space of time five or six dusky
figures pattered up on to the deck, and a minute or two later the harsh
clank of the windlass echoed far and wide.
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