“I own it with sorrow; but I was warned in time by the wretched end of poor James Barber----” “Of whom?” asked the elder brother, starting back as he pushed his glass along the table. “You don’t mean Jovial Jemmy, as we used to call him; once my messmate in the brig ‘Rollock.’” “Yes, I do.” “What! dead?” “Yes.” “Why, it was one of our great delights, when in harbor and on shore, to ‘go the rounds’--as he called it--with Jovial Jemmy. He understood life from stem to stern--from truck to keel. He knew everybody, from the First Lord downwards. I have seen him recognized by _the_ Duke one minute, and the next pick up with a strolling player, and familiarly treat him at a tavern. He once took me to a quadrille party at the Duchess of Durrington’s, where he seemed to know and be known to everybody present, and then adjourned to the Cider Cellars, where he was equally intimate with all sorts of queer characters. Though a favorite among the aristocracy, he was equally welcome in less exclusive societies. He was ‘Brother,’ ‘Past Master,’ ‘Warden,’ ‘Noble Grand,’ or ‘President’ of all sorts of Lodges and Fraternities. Uncommonly knowing was Jemmy in all sorts of club and fashionable gossip. He knew who gave the best dinners, and was always invited to the best balls. He was a capital judge of champagne, and when he betted upon a horse-race everybody backed him. He could hum all the fashionable songs, and was the fourth man who could dance the polka when it was first imported. Then he was as profound in bottled stout, Welsh rabbits, Burton ale, devilled kidneys, and bowls of Bishop, as he was in Roman punch, French cookery, and Italian singers. Afloat, he was the soul of fun:--he got up all our private theatricals, told all the best stories, and sung comic songs that made even the Purser laugh.” “An extent and variety of knowledge and accomplishments,” said Lieutenant Fid, “which had the precise effect of blasting his prospects in life. He was, as you remember, at last dismissed the service for intemperance and incompetence.” “When did you see him last?” “What, _alive_?” inquired Ferdinand Fid, changing countenance. “Of course! Surely you do not mean to insinuate that you have seen his ghost!” The lieutenant was silent; and the midshipman took a deep draught of his favorite mixture--equal portions of rum and water--and hinted to his younger brother, the lieutenant, the expediency of immediately confiding the story to the Marines; for he declined to credit it. He then ventured another recommendation, which was that Ferdinand should throw the impotent temperance tipple he was then imbibing “over the side of the Ship”--which meant the tavern of that name in Greenwich, at the open bow-window of which they were then sitting--and clear his intellects by something stronger.