Chapter VIII (3)

Very, very foggy it was in the Mersey when we run the mudhook out. I don’t think I ever saw it worse.

Ikey didn’t care. He was singing at the top of his voice as the shore boat pushed off:

“We’ll furl up the bunt with a fling, oh ...
To pay Paddy Doyle for his boo-oots....”

“Who said ‘boots’?” he shouted, standing up in the boat with his hands to his mouth. “Where’s the dead corpse now?”

The fog swallowed up the boat whole, but we could hear his voice coming through it a long while, all thick and muffled:

“We’ll all drink brandy and gin, oh ...
And pay Paddy Doyle for his boots....”

The tug that cut the boat in two picked up five men of the six that were in her. And the one that was missing was a good swimmer, too.

But then ... a man can’t swim ... in heavy boots....

THE UNLUCKY “ALTISIDORA”