"
This was Caleb's signal for his master to rise; and he would pipe out
his old sea-staves as long as Mr. Fogo cared to listen. Often, of an
evening, the two would sit by the hour, Caleb trolling lustily with
red cheeks, while his master beat time with his pipe stem, and joined
feebly in the chorus--
"Then 'tes home, dearie, home--O, 'tes home I wants to be!
My tawps'les are h'isted, an' I must out to sea.
Then 'tes home, dearie, home!"
Mr. Fogo arose and looked forth at the window. The morning was
perfect; the air fresh with dew and the scent of awakening roses.
Across the creek the old hull lay as peacefully as ever.
"I will explore it this very morning," thought Mr. Fogo to himself.
The resolve was still strong as he descended to breakfast. Caleb was
still singing--
"O, ef et be a lass, she shall wear a goulden ring;
An' ef et be a lad, he shall live to sarve hes king;
Wi' hes buckles, an' hes butes, an' hes little jacket blue,
He shall walk the quarter-deck, as hes daddy used to do.
Then 'tes home--"
"Mornin', sir, an' axin' your pardon for singin' o' Sunday. How be
feelin' arter et?--as Grace said to her cheeld when her rubbed in the
cough-mixtur' an' made 'un swaller the lineament."
"Do you mean after the ghost?"
"Iss, sir.
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