Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-tump-ti--

came from the piano.

Harty whirled around. "And as for _you_!" He picked up the spare pack
and hurled them at the fat piano-player. "Blast you! Yes, _you_--I said
_you_, didn't I--shut up! It's petticoats you ought to be wearing."

The piano-player's lower lip fell away from his teeth. His wall eyes
opened abnormally. "Why, what did I do to you?" he gasped.

"Nothing. You couldn't do anything to anybody. You haven't the gimp.
Shut up."

Harty faced Baldwin. "The hell we can't help it. The light-ship to South
Shoal could be going to her death with all hands, and we're sitting here
and guzzling rum."

Baldwin was holding his cards up in front of his eyes. He riffled the
close-set edges with a dexterous thumb, took another squint, pursed his
lips, said softly--"M-m--yes, I'm in," dropped two white chips onto the
little pile in the centre, then, looking up, laughed tolerantly at
Harty.

"Rum? Mine's rye, Bud, when there's any choice, but what's wrong with
you to-night? Sit down. Maybe you've got it right, Bud, but what's the
use of gettin' highsterics over it? Maybe some of us could be a lot
better than we are, but I don't know's any of us ever pretended to be
anything great, did we?"