“Hope you find yourself at home—take a sociable glass, that’s a good fellow—glad to see you amongst us,” sung out as many voices as biscuit after biscuit was sent at the purser’s head, while Westbrook mixing a stiff tumbler of salt and water proffered it to our victim to drink. “Spu—spu—gentlemen, spu, I promise you—the utmost penalty of—of the regulations—you shall be mast-headed—disrated—you shall, so help me God.” “A penalty! a penalty! the worthy man is profane: how shall we punish such immorality?” “Cob him,” said one. “Keel-haul him,” said another. “Make him receipt for his bill,” roared a third. “Give him the salt and water,” chimed in Westbrook, and the salt and water it was agreed should be the penalty. Three stout reefers held the loathing victim fast, while Westbrook proceeded to administer the draught. “Gentlemen—I—I—protest—a—gainst—you shall suffer for this—you shall—” “Aisy, you spalpeen you, aisy,” said O’Shaughnessy, giving the purser a shake. “Mr. Westbrook, I warn you—I warn you,” said the purser raising his voice. But our comrade was not to be intimidated. Taking the glass in one hand, he placed himself at a proper distance in front of the struggling man, and gravely commenced haranguing him on the enormity of his offence. “It pains me, indeed, Mr. Sower,” and here Westbrook laid his hand upon his heart, “to hear a man of your character use such language as you have been convicted of, especially in the presence of these misguided young reprobates,” here there was a general laugh, “example, example, my dear sir, is every thing. But the deed is done: the penalty alone remains to be paid. With a heart torn with the most poignant anguish I proceed to execute your sentence.” “Mr. Westbrook, again I warn you—spe—e—u—uh.” But in vain the purser kicked, and struggled, and spluttered. The mess was too much for him. One seized him by the nose, a second forced open his mouth, and Westbrook, with inimitable gravity, apologising for, and bemoaning his melancholy duty,—as he called it—in the same breath, poured the nauseating draught down the victim’s throat, amid roars of laughter. “D——n, I’ll make you pay for this—I will—I will,” roared the purser, almost choked with rage. “Open the door and let him run,” laughed Westbrook. The mandate was obeyed, and with one bound the purser sprang out of the mess-room, while his merry persecutors, holding their sides, laughed until the tears ran out of their eyes. “A song—give us a song, Westbrook!” shouted the one at the foot of the table, as soon as the merriment, ceasing for a while, but renewed again and again, had finally died away. “What shall it be?” said our jovial messmate, “ah! our own mess-room song, Parker hasn’t heard it yet—shove us the jug, for I’m confoundedly dry.” Having taken a long draught, Westbrook hemmed twice, and sang in a fine manly tenor, the following stanzas: