And so on to the end of the century, or till the mate sings out, “Vast heaving,” lifts his hand, and reports to the captain: “The anchor’s apeak, sir.” “Very good, sir, loose sails fore and aft.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Aloft there some of you and loose sails. One hand stop in the tops and crosstrees to overhaul the gear.” “Aye, aye, sir. Royals and sky-sails?” “Yes, royals and skysails; leave the staysails fast.” “Lay out there, four or five of you, and loose the head sails.” “Here, you fellow in the green-spotted shirt, lay down out of that; there’s men enough up there now to eat those sails.” “Mr. Sampson, take some of your men aft and look after the main and mizzen; put a hand at the wheel; as he goes along let him clear the ensign halliards; while you’re waiting lay that accommodation ladder in on deck; leave the spanker fast.” “On the foretopsail yard, there, if you cut that gasket, I’ll split your damned skull; cast it adrift, you lubber.” “Boatswain, get your watch tackles along to the topsail sheets.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Here, some of you gentlemen’s sons in disguise, get that fish-davit out; hook on the pendant; overhaul the tackle down ready for hooking on.” “Mainskysail yard there, don’t make those gaskets up, my boy; fetch them in along the yard, and make fast to the tye.” By this time the sails are loose and the gaskets made up; courses, topsails, topgallantsails, royals, and skysails flutter in their gear, and the clipper feels the breath of life. “Sheet home the topsails.” “Aye, aye, sir.” “Boatswain, look out for those clew-lines at the main; ease down handsomely as the sheets come home.” “Foretop there, overhaul your buntlines, look alive!” “Belay your port maintopsail sheet; clap a watch tackle on the starboard sheet and rouse her home.” “Maintop there, lay down on the main-yard and light the foot of that sail over the stay.” “That’s well, belay starboard.” “Well the mizzentopsail sheets, belay.” “Now then, my bullies, lead out your topsail halliards fore and aft and masthead her.” “Aye, aye, sir.” By this time the mate has put some ginger into the crew and longshoremen, and they walk away with the three topsail halliards: “Away, way, way, yar, We’ll kill Paddy Doyle for his boots.” “Now then, long pulls, my sons.” “Here, you chantyman, haul off your boots, jump on that main-deck capstan and strike a light; the best in your locker.” “Aye, aye, sir.” And the three topsail-yards go aloft with a ringing chanty that can be heard up in Beaver Street: “Then up aloft that yard must go, Whiskey for my Johnny. Oh, whiskey is the life of man, Whiskey, Johnny. I thought I heard the old man say, Whiskey for my Johnny. We are bound away this very day, Whiskey, Johnny. A dollar a day is a white man’s pay, Whiskey for my Johnny.