“Why, yes, you were a little apt to bend your duds wrong for the first month or so,” said the master; “I remember you got the marine's scraper on your head, once, in your hurry to bury a dead man! Then you never looked as if you belonged to the ship, so long as those cursed black knee-breeches lasted! For my part, I never saw you come up the quarter-deck ladder, but I expected to see your shins give way across the combing of the hatch--a man does look like the devil, priest, scudding about a ship's decks in that fashion, under bare poles! But now the tailor has found out the articles ar'n't seaworthy, and we have got your lower stanchions cased in a pair of purser's slops, I am puzzled often to tell your heels from those of a maintopman!” “I have good reason to be thankful for the change,” said the humbled priest, “if the resemblance you mention existed, while I was clad in the usual garb of one of my calling.” “What signifies a calling?” returned Boltrope, catching his breath after a most persevering draught: “a man's shins are his shins, let his upper works belong to what sarvice they may. I took an early prejudyce against knee-breeches, perhaps from a trick I've always had of figuring the devil as wearing them. You know, parson, we seldom hear much said of a man, without forming some sort of an idea concerning his rigging and fashion-pieces--and so, as I had no particular reason to believe that Satan went naked--keep full, ye lubber; now you are running into the wind's eye, and be d----d to ye!--But as I was saying, I always took a conceit that the devil wore knee-breeches and a cock'd hat. There's some of our young lieutenants, who come to muster on Sundays in cock'd hats, just like soldier-officers; but, d'ye see, I would sooner show my nose under a nightcap than under a scraper!” “I hear the sound of oars!” exclaimed the chaplain, who, finding this image more distinct than even his own vivid conceptions of the great father of evil, was quite willing to conceal his inferiority by changing the discourse. “Is not one of our boats returning?” “Ay, ay, 'tis likely; if it had been me, I should have been land-sick before this--ware round, boys, and stand by to heave to on the other tack.” The cutter, obedient to her helm, fell off before the wind; and rolling an instant in the trough of the sea, came up again easily to her oblique position, with her head towards the cliffs; and gradually losing her way, as her sails were brought to counteract each other, finally became stationary. During the performance of this evolution, a boat had hove up out of the gloom, in the direction of the land; and by the time the Alacrity was in a state of rest, it had approached so nigh as to admit of hailing. “Boat, ahoy!” murmured Boltrope, through a trumpet, which, aided by his lungs, produced sounds not unlike the roaring of a bull.