"If the Indian judge really chanced to be on board after all, he evidently fought shy of company, and perhaps meant to have his own mess-table under the poop as long as the voyage lasted; scarcely any of the ladies had apparently got their sea-qualms over yet, and, for all I knew, _she_ might not be with him, even if he were there; or, if she were, her father seemed quite Turk enough to keep her boxed up with jalousie-blinds, Calcutta fashion, and give her a walk in the middle watch, with the poop tabooed till morning. The jolly, red-faced indigo-planter was the only one that tried to get up anything like spirit at the table; indeed, he would have scraped acquaintance with me, if I had been in a mood for it; all I did was to say 'Yes' and 'No,' and to take wine with him. 'Poor fellow!' said he, turning to three or four of the cadets, that stuck by him like pilot-fish to an old shark, 'he's thinking of his mother at home, I daresay.' The fools thought this was meant for a joke, and began to laugh. 'Why, you unfledged griffins you,' said the planter, 'what d'ye see to nicker at, like so many jackals in a trap? D'ye suppose one thinks the less of a man for having a heart to be sick in, as well as a stomach--eh?' 'Oh, don't speak of it, Mr Rollock!' said one. 'Come, come, old boy,' said another, with a white moustache on his lip, ''twon't do for you to go the sentimental, you know.' 'Capsize my main-spanker, 'tis too funny, though,' put in a fellow who wore a glazed hat on deck, and put down all the ropes with numbers on paper, as soon as he had done being sick. The planter leant back in his chair, looked at them coolly, and burst out a-laughing. 'Catch me ever "going home" again,' said he. 'Of all the absurd occasions for impudence with the egg-shell on its head coming out, hang me if these fifteen thousand miles of infernal sea-water ain't the worst. India for ever!--that's the place to _try_ a man. He's either sobered or gets room to work there; and just wait, my fine fellows, till I see _you_ on the Custom-house _Bunda_ at Bombay, or setting off up country--you're all of you the very food for _sircars_ and _coolies_. That quiet lad there, now, soft as he looks'--meaning me--'I can tell by his eye he won't be long a griff--he'll do something. I tell you what, as soon as he's tasted his first mango-fish, he'll _understand_ the country. Why, sir,' said he again, smacking his lips, ''tis worth the voyage of itself--you begin a new existence so to speak. I'll be bound all this lot o' water don't contain one single mango-fish. Remember, boys, I promised you all a regular blow-out of mango-fish, and _florican_ with bread-sauce, whenever you can get across to Chuckbully Factory.' 'Blow, good breeze, then; blow away the main jib!' said the nautical young gentleman; 'I'll join you, old fellow!' 'Not the best way to bring it about, though,' said the indigo-planter, good-naturedly, not knowing but there _was_ such a sail on the ship.