a smile went round the ship, for Buckle almost
invariably laid his student out, and when Tom woke again he was almost
always in the humour for brown sherry. The connection was so well
established that "a glass of Buckle" or "a bottle of civilisation"
became current pleasantries on board the _Currency Lass_.

Hemstead's province was that of the repairs, and he had his hands full.
Nothing on board but was decayed in a proportion: the lamps leaked, so
did the decks; door-knobs came off in the hand, mouldings parted company
with the panels, the pump declined to suck, and the defective bathroom
came near to swamp the ship. Wicks insisted that all the nails were long
ago consumed, and that she was only glued together by the rust. "You
shouldn't make me laugh so much, Tommy," he would say. "I am afraid I'll
shake the sternpost out of her." And, as Hemstead went to and fro with
his tool-basket on an endless round of tinkering, Wicks lost no
opportunity of chaffing him upon his duties. "If you'd turn to at
sailoring or washing paint or something useful, now," he would say, "I
could see the fun of it. But to be mending things that haven't no
insides to them appears to me the height of foolishness." And doubtless
these continual pleasantries helped to reassure the landsmen, who went
to and fro unmoved, under circumstances that might have daunted Nelson.

The weather was from the outset splendid, and the wind fair and steady.
The ship sailed like a witch. "This _Currency Lass_ is a powerful old
girl, and has more complaints than I would care to put a name on," the
captain would say, as he pricked the chart; "but she could show her
blooming heels to anything of her size in the Western Pacific." To wash
decks, relieve the wheel, do the day's work after dinner on the
smoking-room table, and take in kites at night--such was the easy
routine of their life. In the evening--above all, if Tommy had produced
some of his civilisation--yarns and music were the rule. Amalu had a
sweet Hawaiian voice; and Hemstead, a great hand upon the banjo,
accompanied his own quavering tenor with effect. There was a sense in
which the little man could sing. It was great to hear him deliver "My
Boy Tammie" in Austrylian; and the words (some of the worst of the
ruffian Macneill's) were hailed in his version with inextinguishable
mirth.

"Where hye ye been a' dye?"

he would ask, and answer himself:--

"I've been by burn and flowery brye,
Meadow g