I had forgotten Alister.
I was not likely soon to forget his face as I saw it, the blood swelling his forehead, and the white wrath round his lips, when he gripped me by the shoulder, saying, in broader Scotch than usual, "Come awa' wi' ye, laddie! I'll no let ye stay.

Come awa' oot of this accurst hole.

I wonder he doesna think black burning shame of himsel' to stand up before grey-heided men and fill a callant's ears with filth like yon." Happily just indignation had choked Alister's voice as well as his veins, and I don't think many of the company heard this too accurate summary of the situation.

The boatswain did, but before he could speak, Dennis O'Moore had sprung to the ground between them, and laying the fiddle over his shoulder played a wild sort of jig that most effectually and unceremoniously drowned the rest of the song, and diverted the attention of the men.
"The fiddle's an old friend, so the bo'sun tells me," he said, nodding towards the faces that turned to him.
"Aye, aye, sir." "Why, I'm blessed if it isn't Sambo's old thing." "It's your honour knows how to bring the heart out of it, anyhow." "My eyes, Pat! You should ha' heerd it at the dignity ball we went ashore for at Barbadoes.

Did you ever foot the floor with a black washerwoman of eighteen stun, dressed out in muslin the colour of orange marmalade, and white kid shoes ?" "I did not, the darlin'!" As the circle gossiped, Dennis tuned the fiddle, talking vehemently to the boatswain between whiles.
"Bo'sun! ye're not to say a word to the boy.