Hardy moved that the show be concluded by drinking the health of Windjammer, more notable in its flights than any roc in the Arabian Nights, and by all singing a composition of his own, carbon copies of which were distributed.
"Which ale shall we drink it in," shouted Hardy, "Adam's or ginger!"
"Ginger!" roared the lads with one accord. The suggestion being thus noisily approved, the ginger-ale was produced and drained off with great gusto. Then Hardy, after a few introductory chords on his guitar, started to bellow out his verse to a rollicking tune, while he flourished one hand in the most approved orchestra-leader fashion:
"A jolly rover of the air,
A seasoned bird am I.
There's not a venture I'd not dare,
When sweeping through the sky.
I feel my blood
Surge to the flood,
As I mount up the sky.
"Now, boys," he paused to exhort, "all join in and put plenty of punch in your singing. Now:
