Very musical.
Perhaps no such words had ever before gone out over that part of the Atlantic; for Frank Harley was a missionary's son, "going home to be educated;" and the sweet, low-voiced song was a Hindustanee hymn which his mother had taught him in far-away India.
Suddenly the hymn was cut short by the hoarse voice of the "lookout," as it announced,-- "A white light, close aboard, on the windward bow." That was rapidly followed by even hoarser hails, replied to by a voice which was clear and strong enough, but not hoarse at all.

The next moment something, which was either a white sail or a ghost, came slipping along through the fog, and then the conversation did not require to be shouted any longer.

Frank could even hear one person say to another out there in the mist, "Ain't it a big thing, Ford, that you know French?
I mean to study it when we get home." "It's as easy as eating.

Dab, shall I tell 'em we've got some fish ?" "Of course.

We'll sell 'em the whole cargo." "Sell them?
Why not make them a present ?" "We may need the money to get home with.