Looking ever for a fresh incursion of rats, he seemed to be cheered by the fact that his dreaded assailants preferred the interior of the forecastle to the wave-swept deck.

He was the only man there who had no fear of death.

Suddenly he began to croon a long-forgotten sailor's chanty.

Perhaps, in some dim way, a notion of his true predicament had dawned on him, for there was a sinister purport to the verse.
"Now, me lads, sing a stave of the Dead Man's Mass; Ye'll never sail 'ome again, O.
We're twelve old salts an' the skipper's lass, Marooned in the Spanish Main, O.
Sing hay---- Sing ho---- A nikker is Davy Jones, Just one more plug, an' a swig at the jug, An' up with the skull an' bones." After a longer and faster haul than had been noticed previously, the rope stopped a second time.

Everyone, except Watts, was watching the whip intently.