Next morning, soon after gunfire, I landed at the Wherry wharf in Port Royal. It was barely daylight, but, to my surprise, I found my friend Peregrine Whiffle seated on a Spanish chair, close to the edge of the wharf, smoking a cigar. This piece of furniture is an arm-chair strongly framed with hard-wood, over which, back and bottom, a tanned hide is stretched, which, in a hot climate, forms a most luxurious seat, the back tumbling out at an angle of 45 degrees, while the skin yields to every movement, and does not harbour a nest of biting ants, or a litter of scorpions, or any other of the customary occupants of a cushion that has been in Jamaica for a year. He did not know me as I passed; but his small glimmering red face instantly identified the worthy little old man to me. “Good morning, Mr Whiffle--the top of the morning to you, sir.” “Hillo,” responded Peregrine--“Tom, is it you?--how d’ye do, man--how d’ye do?” and he started to his feet, and almost embraced me. Now, I had never met the said Peregrine Whiffle but twice in my life; once at Mr Fyall’s, and once during the few days I remained in Kingston, before I set out on my travels; but he was a warm hearted kindly old fellow, and, from knowing all my friends there very intimately, he, as a matter of course, became equally familiar with me. “Why the diable came you not to see me, man? Have been here for change of air, to recruit, you know, after that demon, the gout, had been so perplexing me, ever since you came to anchor--the Firebrand, I mean--as for you, you have been mad one while, and philandering with those inconvenient white ladies the other. You’ll cure of that, my boy you’ll come to the original comforts of the country soon, no fear!” “Perhaps I may, perhaps not.” “Oh, your cousin Mary, I forgot--fine girl, Tom--may do for you at home yonder,” (all Creoles speak of England as home, although they may never have seen it,) “but she can’t make pepper-pot, nor give a dish of land crabs as land crabs should be given, nor see to the serving up of a ringtail pigeon, nor rub a beefsteak to the rotting turn with a bruised papaw, nor compose a medicated bath, nor, nor--oh, confound it, Tom, she will be, when you marry her, a cold, comfortless, motionless Creole icicle!” I let him have his swing. “Never mind her then, never mind her, my dear sir; but time presses and I must be off, I must indeed, so good morning; I wish you a good morning, sir.” He started to his feet, and caught hold of me. “Sha’n’t go, Tom, impossible--come along with me to my lodgings, and breakfast with me. Here, Pilfer, Pilfer,” to his black valet, “give me my stick, and massu the chair, and run home and order breakfast--cold calipiver--our Jamaica salmon, you know, Tom-tea and coffee pickled mackerel, eggs, and cold tongue--any thing that Mother Dingychops can give us; so bolt, Pilfer, bolt!”