"Clang-Clang! Clang-clang! Clang-clang! Clang-clang!" Four double
tolls sounded on the bell aft betokened the sea-time of eight bells in
the second dog-watch, or 8 p.m. shore time. Donald was half dozing in
his bunk and listening aimlessly to the hardened Thompson holding
forth to Jenkins. "Mark my words ... a ruddy workhouse. No takin' yer
ease on this lime-juicer ... nigger-drivin', back-breakin' starvation
Scotch tank ... rotten dead cargo.... She'll be a truck to steer ...
and a swine to tack. All day to-day ... sweating ... calashee
watch...." He growled away pessimistically while Donald nodded with
eyes closed. Moore was in his bunk asleep. He, like Donald, was tired
and sore, but bore it in sulky silence.
"Lay aft all handts!" bawled Mr. Hinkel on the main-deck. Jenkins gave
Donald a rude shake and brought him to wakefulness with a yell.
"Muster out on deck, nipper! Picking the watches, I guess!"
Donald scrambled out into the darkness. The barque was running with
her yards square and the trucks swayed slightly across the stars. A
light was blinking abeam, and the following wavelets plashed and
hissed against the vessel's sides. The men were coming from for'ard
and collected in knots under the poop-break. "Come up on the poop,
men!" cried the mate, leaning over the rail.
Up on the poop the wind blew cold and Donald shivered. The mate stood
by the lighted binnacle with the ship's articles in his hands.
"Sing aout naow while I call school!" he said, and he read:
"Jones!"
"Here, sir!" came from one of the crew.
"Stand to one side after you answer your names!" ordered the officer.
"Barclay!" The black chantey-man answered and joined Jones, and the
mate mustered representatives of four continents as he drawled,
"Valdez!"--"Si, senor!"
"Hansen!"--"Yaw, sir!"
"McLean!"--"Aye, mister!"
"Yedon--what th' hell is this? Yedon--"