The
flaps of the mad canvas were like successive thumps of a giant's
fist upon a mighty drum. The sheets were jerking at the belaying
pins, the blocks rattling in sharp snappings like castanets. You
could hear the hiss and seething of the sea alongside, and see it
flash by in sudden white patches of phosphorescent foam, while all
over head was black with the flying scud. The English second mate
was stamping with vexation, and, with all his h's misplaced,
storming at the men: ''An'somely the weather mainbrace--'an'somely,
I tell you!--'Alf a dozen of you clap on to the main sheet
here--down with 'im!--D'y'see 'ere's hall like a midshipman's
bag--heverythink huppermost and nothing 'andy. 'Aul 'im in, Hi
say!' But the sail wouldn't come, though. All the most forcible
expressions of the Commination Service were liberally bestowed on
the watch. 'Give us the song, men!' sang out the mate, at
last--'pull with a will!--together men!--haltogether now!'--And
then a cracked, melancholy voice struck up this chant:
'Oh, the bowline, bully, bully bowline,
Oh, the bowline, bowline, HAUL!'
At the last word every man threw his whole strength into the
pull--all singing it in chorus, with a quick, explosive sound. And
so, jump by jump, the sheet was at last hauled taut.'
It would be well if the philanthropist and utilitarian would stoop to
examine these primeval but neglected facts, for there is no doubt that
under the healthful and delicious spell of Rhythm a far steadier and
greater amount of labor would be cheerfully and happily endured by the
working classes.
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