"Well, sir," replied Joey, with a deep-drawn sigh, "I should like to hear your moral at any rate." "The fact is, sir," said Gingham, "on board ship, what is a poor wretch of a monkey to do? At night, probably, he is driven to the rigging. He would gladly nestle with the men, but the men won't have him; for, to say nothing of the general ridicule a fellow would incur by having a monkey for his bedfellow, ten to one the poor wretch is swarming with fleas as big as jackasses, to say nothing of enormous ticks in the creases of his dirty skin. Monkeys, sir, like dogs, scratch themselves a great deal, but cleanse themselves very little. Now depend upon it, when the weather is cold and the wind high, monkeys never sleep in trees. Is it likely then, on board ship, that they prefer sleeping aloft?--that is, if a monkey ever sleeps. Did you ever see a monkey asleep?" "Can't say I ever did," replied Joey. "I have seen them nodding. But the moral?" "The moral," said Gingham, "is simply this. The next time you sail with a monkey and a cat on board, if you provide a basket for the cat, provide another for the monkey." "Obviously!" replied Joey. "Would we had thought of that on board the Jackal! Obviously!" "May I ask," said Gingham, "how you contrived to hang the monkey?" "Of course," replied Joey, "he was first pinioned." "Exactly," said Gingham; "so I conjectured. Otherwise I should consider the hanging of a monkey no easy matter." "Now, Captain Gabion, if you please," said the Colonel, interposing. "The punch is nearly out," replied the Captain, "and, if I might be excused, I should really feel thankful for the indulgence. I have nothing to tell but an ugly dream; and that dream relates to a subject which, as I believe my military friends here present are aware, is constantly and painfully present to my mind. The less said about it the better." "Come, come, Captain Gabion," said the Colonel; "never think of that, man. You'll see Old England again, I tell you, and rise to rank in the service. Come, give us your story." It is well known that, among the officers who embarked for the Peninsula, there was occasionally one who quitted his native shores with a strong presentiment that he should never see them again, but fall in action. In such instances the mind retained the impression almost constantly. It was not the coward's fear of death--far from it. If ever it was forgotten, the moment was that of conflict and peril; and then, it was sometimes realised. "Come, old fellow," said the Colonel; "your story, if you please." The Captain was about to reply, when a musical voice, pitched in alto, was heard from the state-cabin:--"Kitty, Kitty, come down; come down, I tell you. You'll catch your death o' cold, standing there in the draught without your bonnet. Come down, child, this instant."