Then we had a mouth-organ solo or two, which naturally led on to songs.

My turn came.

I struck up the first verse of a sailor chantey as possessing at least the interest of novelty: Oh, once we were a-sailing, a-sailing were we, Blow high, blow low, what care we; And we were a-sailing to see what we could see, Down on the coast of the High Barbaree.
I had just gone so far when I was brought up short by a tremendous oath behind me.

At the same instant a match flared.

I turned to face a stranger holding the little light above his head, and peering with fiery intentness over the group sprawled about the floor.
He was evidently just in from the storm.