"I don't care for that," rejoined the Old Sailor, "I am very timid on the water; but if you're sure there's no danger, and it will be quite calm (it was nearly so), I will venture to take a sail." "Danger!" repeated the veteran somewhat contemptuously, though there was an expression of doubt and suspicion on his countenance that seemed to say "I think you're a gammoning me."--"What danger can there be when there's hardly wind enough to fill the canvas?" After some further conversation relative to the perils of the ocean, which drew forth some scornful glances from the veteran, we embarked in a pretty green boat, with two masts or poles, one sticking up behind and the other near the middle, to which sails were fastened. Whilst Hemptage was loosing what we believe is named the main-sail, the Old Sailor jumped aft to set what he called the "lug mizen," and he was shoving out a pole from the stern, right over the water. We immediately informed the boatman that our companion was "meddling with the things at the other end," and the veteran promptly turned round and exclaimed, "You'd better let that ere alone, Sir. You'll find somut as 'ull puzzle you there." "Avast, old boy!" returned the Old Sailor, laughing; "I've rigged out as many bumkins[6] as you have in my time." "Ay, ay," drawled out the veteran--"hang me if I didn't think so by the cut of your jib--I thought it was all gammon, and you knowed better than to go sailing without wind." "You have belonged to a man-of-war," said the Old Sailor, as we were standing off from the shore. "Why, yes, I've had a spell at it," returned Hemptage somewhat knowingly, "I was in the owld Hyacinth with Tommy Ussher, and a better Captain never walked a ship's quarter-deck. I was with him too in the Ondaunted frigate up the Mediterranean----" "What! were you in her, in Frejus Bay, when Buonaparte embarked for Elba?" inquired the Old Sailor. "Why to be sure I was, and remembers it well enough," returned he with animation. "And the first thing Boney did when he got aboard was to come forud on to the foksle and have a yarn with the foksle men[7]." "What sort of a man was he?" we asked with quickness. "What sort of a man," reiterated the veteran, "why a stout good-looking chap enough, only very swarthy. Them images as the Italian boys brings about is very like, only I never seed him in that little cocked hat." "Why what did he wear then?" inquired we with some eagerness. "Oh he wore a round hat[8]," replied Hemptage, "and he used to lean against the breech of the foksle gun and spin yarns with us for the hour together."