I knew, nothing of Joe's musical powers, and it was with no little surprise I discovered that he had an excellent voice of the pitch they call barytone. He began: Of all the lives, I ever say, A pirate's be for I; Hap what hap may he's allus gay And drinks an' bungs his eye. For his work he's never loath; An' a-pleasurin' he will go; Tho' sartin sure to be popt off, Yo ho, with the rum below. At the conclusion of the stanza his audience broke into loud applause. And then, with a sheepish air that set me a-smiling, Joseph Runnles, my bedfellow, the little silent man of whom I have spoken, drew out of his pocket the parts of a flute, and putting them together, set it to his lips and accompanied Joe through the next stanza, picking up the tune with a facility that spoke well for his musical ear. In Bristowe I left Poll ashore, Well stored wi' togs and gold; An' off I goes to sea for more, A-piratin' so bold. An' wounded in the arm I got, An' then a pretty blow; Comes home I finds Poll flowed away. Yo ho, with the rum below. "Adad, brother," cries Joe, clapping the little man on the shoulder, "why have you stowed away your noble talents so long under hatches? I've sailed the seas for many a year; east, west, north and south, as the saying is; Blacks, Indians, Moors, Morattos, and Sepoys; but smite my timbers, never such a man of music have I drawn alongside of before." Runnles blushed like a girl, and said never a word, but blew the moisture out of his flute, ready for the next stanza. An' when my precious leg was lopt. Just for a bit of fun, I picks it up, on t'other hopt, An' rammed it in a gun. "What's that for?" cries out Salem Dick. "What for, my jumpin' beau? Why, to give the lubbers one more kick!" Yo ho with the rum below. By this time the other men had got the hang of the song, and when Joe started the next stanza they joined in, trolling the tune (they knew not the words as yet) in voices high and low, rough and coarse for the most part, and with more heartiness than melody. This happy thought of Joe's cured our dumps and put us all in a good temper, and for the rest of that morning we sat singing songs, and listening to the tootling of Runnles' flute, when the little man could be prevailed on to treat us to a solo. "You be mighty bashful for a sailor man," said Joe at the end of the concert, "partickler as your name be Joe like mine, but we won't let 'ee hide your talents any more, split my braces if we will." It was on the night of that day that Vetch got his thrashing. We had gone early to our dormitory because of the rain, and being unable to sleep for the cold, one of the men suggested that Runnles should give us a tune. "'Tis comfortin' to the spirits," said the man, a big fellow known to us as the bosun: his name was Peter Wiggett.