“It will come!” he exclaimed; “never doubt it for a moment. It will come! do you remember what I said to you of my skill in fortune-telling? I repeat, success is written in your face. What you really wish and strive to attain is as sure to arrive at last as a fair wind in the trades or a flood-tide at full moon.” “I hope so,” returned the Captain; “I believe it. I suppose I am as bold as my neighbours, and luckily it never comes across me when there’s anything to do; but sometimes my heart fails when I think, if I _should_ go down and lose my number, how she’ll sit and wonder, poor thing, why I never come back!” “Courage, my Captain!” said Eugène, cheerily, affecting the tone and manner of their old corps. “Courage. _En arant! à la Mousquetaire!_ You will lose nothing, not even the cargo; we shall return with both pockets full of money. You will buy a _château_. There will be a fête at your wedding: I shall bring there my violin, and, believe me, I shall rejoice in your happiness as if it were my own.” “She is so young, so beautiful, so gentle,” continued the Captain; “I could not bear that her life should be darkened, whatever comes of me. If, at last, the great happiness _does_ arrive, Eugène, I shall not forget my friend. _Château_ or cottage, you will be welcome with your violin. You would admire her as I do; we both think alike on so many subjects. So young, so fresh, so beautiful! I wish you could see her. I am not sure but that you _have_ seen her. Do you remember the day―?” What further confidences the skipper was about to impart were here cut short by a round of applause from the forecastle, apparently arising from some proposal much approved by the whole assemblage. The Captain, with his friend, paused to listen. It was a request that Bottle-Jack would sing, and seemed not unfavourably received by that veteran. After many excuses, and much of a mock modesty to be observed under similar conditions in the most refined societies, he took his quid from his cheek, and cleared his voice with great pomp ere he embarked on a ditty of which the subject conveyed a delicate compliment to the proclivities of his friend Smoke-Jack, who had originated the call, and which he sang in that flat, monotonous, and dispiriting key, only to be accomplished, I firmly believe, by an able seaman in the daily exercise of his profession. He designated it “The Real Trinidado,” and it ran as follows:— “Oh! when I was a lad, Says my crusty old dad, Says he,—‘Jack! you must stick to the spade, oh!” But he grudged me my prog, And he grudged me my grog, And my pipe of the real Trinidado. “Says my Syousan to me,— ‘Jack, if you goes to sea, I’ll be left but a desolate maid, oh!’ Then I answers her—‘Sue! Can’t I come back to you When I’m done with the old Trinidado?”