"But, Mister Stubbs," the tormentor would continue, "it is now nearly six bells--you have not dined, I presume; how long have you been making this little distance, Mister Stubbs?" with a slow accent on the word Mister. "Six hours!--bless me--I would certainly rope's--end those lubbers in your boat. You _must_ be hungry--so must they, poor fellows! Here, Mr Rattlin, call them up, put a boat-keeper in the boat, and let her drop astern--tell my steward to give them a good tuck--out and a glass of grog. Mister Stubbs, you'll dine with me;" and the affair would end by the gratified hoaxed one being sent on board his own vessel about the end of twilight, seeing more stars in the heavens than astronomers have yet discovered. But these skippers were, though very plump, but very humble game for our yellow-skinned tormentor. He nearly drove the third lieutenant mad, and that by a series of such delicate persecutions, annoyances so artfully veiled, and administered in a manner so gentlemanly, that complaint on the part of the persecuted, instead of exciting commiseration, covered him with ridicule. This officer was a Portuguese nobleman of the name of Silva--the Don we could never bring our English mouths to use--who had entered our service at a very early age, and consequently spoke our language as naturally as ourselves. He was surnamed the "Paviour," and, when off duty, generally so addressed. It must not be supposed that he acquired this soubriquet on account of the gentlemen in corduroys laying by their hammers when he walked the street, bidding God bless him, for he was a very light and elegant figure, and singularly handsome. At this time I was the youngster of his watch, and a great favourite with him. The misfortune of his life was, that he had written a book--only one single sin--but it never left him,--it haunted him through half the ships in the service, and finally drove him out of it. He had written this book, and caused it to be printed--and he _published_ it also, for nobody else could. His bookseller had tried, and failed lamentably. Now, Don Silva was always publishing, and never selling. His cabin was piled up with several ill-conditioned cases of great weight, which cases laboured under the abominable suspicion of containing the unsold copies.