Singing was his one polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents in far-off lands had known.
'What shall I sing ?' said he, turning in the chair.
'"Moll Roe in the Morning,"' said Torpenhow, at a venture.
'No,' said Dick, sharply, and the Nilghai opened his eyes.

The old chanty whereof he, among a very few, possessed all the words was not a pretty one, but Dick had heard it many times before without wincing.
Without prelude he launched into that stately tune that calls together and troubles the hearts of the gipsies of the sea-- 'Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain.' Dick turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear the bows of the Barralong crashing into the green seas on her way to the Southern Cross.
Then came the chorus-- 'We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors, We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis forty-five leagues.' 'Thirty-five-thirty-five,' said Dick, petulantly.

'Don't tamper with Holy Writ.

Go on, Nilghai.' 'The first land we made it was called the Deadman,' and they sang to the end very vigourously.
'That would be a better song if her head were turned the other way--to the Ushant light, for instance,' said the Nilghai.
'Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill,' said Torpenhow.

'Give us something else, Nilghai.