Just then a hush fell upon the people below. It startled one, so suddenly did it come on top of the noise. The skylights lay wide open; I stepped to one and looked down. Some of the convicts already lay with their heads buried in their arms upon the table, motionless in deep, drunken sleep. Others who were within the compass of my gaze leaned back, staring in the stupefaction of drink with fixed eyes. A few lay like dead men upon the deck. But the great mass were still wide awake, full of the fever of drink and the life of their own hideous spirits; as many as I could see were all looking aft where Abram sat, and I had not been watching a minute when Abram, whose deep bass voice, considerably thickened and deepened yet by the drams he had drained, roared out the following song (I caught some of the words and long afterward met with the verses): The prize-fighter sang it thus: As clever Tob Pitch, while the rabble was bawli’g, Rode stately through ’Olbord to die id his calli’g, He stopped at the George for a bottle of sack, A’d probised to pay for it whed he cabe back. Here broke in a roar of laughter. His waistcoat a’d stockids a’d breeches were white, His cap had a dew cherry ribbon to tie’t. The baids to the doors a’d the balcodies rad, A’d said: ‘Lack-a-day, he’s a proper yu’g bad.’ The singer was again interrupted by another great shout of laughter. It may have been his drunken grimaces and thick pronunciation that amused the convicts; there seemed not much to laugh at in the words of his song. But as at the windows the ladies he spied, Like a beau id the box he bowed low od each side! A’d whed the last speech the loud ’awkers did cry, He swore frob his cart: ‘It was all a dabbed lie!’ The ha’gbad for pardod fell dowd od his dee; Tob gave hib a kick id the guts for his fee-- Here broke in another shout that lasted some moments. The convicts beat upon the table with their pannikins; several flaming matches were passed along and pipes sucked hard. The atmosphere rose through that open skylight hot as a blast from a furnace and dark with tobacco clouds. The prize-fighter, in a thicker and deeper voice, proceeded: Tob said: ‘I bust speak to the people a little; But I’ll see you all cussed here before I will whittle. Take courage, dear cobrades, a’d be dot afraid, Dor slip this occasiod to follow your trade; By codscience is clear a’d by spirits are carb, A’d thus I go off without prayer-book or psarb.’ Thed follow the practice of clever Tom Pitch, Who hung like a ’ero ad dever would flitch! On finishing this song, the prize-fighter bellowed in a loud voice of thunder: ‘Chorus, pals all! Chorus, pals all!’ And the drunken mob, in every variety of note, till the chorus was no more than an ear-splitting, discordant howling, repeated Then follow the practice of clever Tom Pinch, Who hung like a hero and never would flinch!