"The drama of the Battle of Waterloo was about to be produced at a theatre in an English sea-port town. Numbers of supernumeraries were wanted to fill the ranks of the French and the English forces; and some of the sailors belonging to the numerous ships in the harbor were mustered for the required purpose. At rehearsal, each supernumerary received a numbered ticket, and was expected to answer when that number was called, that he might be instructed in the duties of the station assigned to him. No. 7 was named, but an answer was not forthcoming. 'You are No. 7, I believe,' said the stage-manager to a big-whiskered, long-tailed tar. 'Exactly.' 'Why did you not answer to the call!' 'Bill Sykes, is No. 4. You've shoved him in the enemy's squad; now we've sailed, messed, and _fout_ together, for twenty years, and we're not going to be enemies now.' Remonstrance was useless; the holder of No. 8 was induced to change numbers with Bill Sykes, and the messmates were not divided. "When a portion of the jolly tars were told that they were to represent Frenchmen, they, one and all, indignantly refused. 'It was disgrace enough to _hact_ as soldiers, but they'd be blessed if they'd pretend to be Mounseers at any price, or put on the enemy's jackets.' The manager was compelled to procure landsmen for Napoleon's army; but the night ended in a row; the sham-fight broke into a real battle; muskets were clubbed, and heads broken, and Nos. 7 and 8 were given into the custody of the police, as ring-leaders of a dangerous riot. "No. 7, when before the magistrate, thus defended himself: