A knot of men were gathered under the lee of the after deckhouse,
huddled together for warmth and companionship. There was "Stump,"
"Bill," Potter, and a number of others.

"Say! can't any one sing, or tell a yarn, or whistle a tune, or dance a
jig?" said "Bill" in a muffled tone. "If some one does not start some
kind of excitement I will go to sleep in my tracks, and Doctor 'Gangway'
says I mustn't sleep out of doors." His speech ended in a fit of
coughing and a succession of sneezes.

"Here, 'Morse,' give us that new song of yours," said "Steve," as
another oilskinned figure joined the group. "Morse" and "Steve" were our
chief song writers. Each sat on a quarter six-pounder, one on the
starboard, the other on the port. "I will, if you chaps will join in the
chorus," answered "Morse." "No, thank you," he added, as some one handed
him an imaginary glass. "_Nature_ has wet my whistle pretty thoroughly
to-night." "Stump," in his most impressive manner, stepped forward, and
in true master-of-ceremonies style introduced our entertainer. He was
enlarging on the undoubted merits of the composer and singer, and had
waxed really eloquent, when a strong gust of wind blew the water that
lodged in the awning squarely down his neck. This dampened his ardor but
not our spirits.

"Morse," like the good fellow he was, got up and sang this song to the
tune of "Billy Magee Magaw":

When the "Yankee" goes sailing home again,
Hurrah! Hurrah!
We'll forget that we're "Heroes" and just be men,