Sundry Buyers quavered the next line: "Oh, whiskey killed my sister Sue." Then Mr.Pike took a hand, seizing the hauling-part next to the pin and lifting his voice with a rare snap and devilishness: "And whiskey killed the old man, too, Whiskey for my Johnny." He sang the devil-may-care lines on and on, lifting the crew to the work and to the chorused emphasis of "Whiskey for my Johnny." And to his voice they pulled, they moved, they sang, and were alive, until he interrupted the song to cry "Belay!" And then all the life and lilt went out of them, and they were again maundering and futile things, getting in one another's way, stumbling and shuffling through the darkness, hesitating to grasp ropes, and, when they did take hold, invariably taking hold of the wrong rope first.

Skulkers there were among them, too; and once, from for'ard of the 'midship house, I heard smacks, and curses, and groans, and out of the darkness hurriedly emerged two men, on their heels Mr.Pike, who chanted a recital of the distressing things that would befall them if he caught them at such tricks again.
The whole thing was too depressing for me to care to watch further, so I strolled aft and climbed the poop.

In the lee of the chart-house Captain West and the pilot were pacing slowly up and down.

Passing on aft, I saw steering at the wheel the weazened little old man I had noted earlier in the day.

In the light of the binnacle his small blue eyes looked more malevolent than ever.