“To the port o' Blackwall,” replied the steersman. “But we're going quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night.” “A queer craft.” “Werry,” replied Tom. “Don't answer the helm at all.” “Any grog on board?” demanded the sailor. “Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's no room for stowage.” “Shiver my timbers!--no grog!” exclaimed the other; “why--you'll founder. If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour. Heave to--and let's drink success to the voyage.” “With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard, Tom--larboard.” “Aye, aye--larboard it is.” “Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have a bowl.” Tom tugged away, and soon “brought up” at the door of a wine-vaults. “Let go the anchor,” exclaimed his messmate--“that's it--coil up.” “Here, mate--here's a picter of his royal majesty”--giving the sailor alongside a new guinea--“and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health--God bless him.” “Hooray!” shouted the delighted mob. Their quondam friend soon did his bidding, bringing out a huge china-bowl filled with grog, which was handed round to every soul within reach, and presently dispatched;--two others followed, before they “weighed anchor and proceeded on their voyage,” cheered by the ragged multitude, among whom they lavishly scattered their change; and a most riotous and ridiculous scramble it produced. I was much pleased with the novelty of the scene, and escaped from the crowd as quickly as I conveniently could, for I was rather apprehensive of an attempt upon my pockets. What strange beings are these sailors! They have no care for the morrow, but spend lavishly the hard-earned wages of their adventurous life. To one like myself, who early knew the value of money, this thoughtless extravagance certainly appeared unaccountable, and nearly allied to madness; but, when I reflected that they are sometimes imprisoned in a ship for years, without touching land, and frequently in peril of losing their lives--that they have scarcely time to scatter their wages and prize-money in the short intervals which chance offers them of mixing with their fellow-men, my wonder changed to pity. “A man in a ship,” says Dr. Johnson, “is worse than a man in a jail; for the latter has more room, better food, and commonly better company, and is in safety.” CHAPTER XII.--Monsieur Dubois. “I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!--but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!”