I had remained in the hospital about a week, when Captain Kearney was evidently dying: the doctor came, felt his pulse, and gave it as his opinion that he could not outlive the day. This was on a Friday, and there certainly was every symptom of dissolution. He was so exhausted, that he could scarcely articulate; his feet were cold, and his eyes appeared glazed, and turning upwards. The doctor remained an hour, felt his pulse again, shook his head, and said to me in a low voice, "He is quite gone." As soon as the doctor quitted the room, Captain Kearney opened his eyes, and beckoned me to him. "He's a confounded fool, Peter," said he: "he thinks I am slipping my wind now--but I know better; going I am, 'tis true--but I sha'n't die till next Thursday." Strange to say, from that moment he rallied; and although it was reported that he was dead, and the admiral had signed the acting order for his successor, the next morning, to the astonishment of everybody, Captain Kearney was still alive. He continued in this state, between life and death, until the Thursday next, the day on which he asserted that he would die--and, on that morning, he was evidently sinking fast. Towards noon, his breathing became much oppressed and irregular, and he was evidently dying, the rattle in his throat commenced; and I watched at his bedside, waiting for his last grasp, when he again opened his eyes, and beckoning me, with an effort, to put my head close to him to hear what he had to say, he contrived in a sort of gurgling whisper, and with much difficulty, to utter--"Peter, I'm going now--not that the rattle--in my throat--is a sign of death: for I once knew a man--to _live_ with--_the rattle in his throat_--for _six_ weeks." He fell back and expired, having, perhaps, at his last gasp, told the greatest lie of his whole life.