Our fog-horn tooted at intervals, and everything was as damp, dark, and forlorn as could be.
A knot of men were gathered under the lee of the after deckhouse, huddled together for warmth and companionship.

There was "Stump," "Bill," Potter, and a number of others.
"Say! can't any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a jig ?" said "Bill" in a muffled tone.

"If some one does not start some kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor 'Gangway' says I mustn't sleep out of doors." His speech ended in a fit of coughing and a succession of sneezes.
"Here, 'Morse,' give us that new song of yours," said "Steve," as another oilskinned figure joined the group.

"Morse" and "Steve" were our chief song writers.

Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the starboard, the other on the port.