I told him that before I came ashore I had heard the gig’s-crew piped away, and that I therefore expected, as Jonathan says, that the captain would be after me immediately; so that I wished at all events to get away from where we were, as I had no desire to be caught gossiping about when my superior might be expected to pass. “True, boy, true”--as he shackled himself to me, and we began to crawl along towards the wharf-gate leading into the town. Captain Transom by this time had landed, and came up with us. “Ah, Transom,” said Whiffle, “glad to see you. I say, why won’t you allow Mr Cringle here to go over to Spanish Town with me for a couple of days, eh?” “Why, I don’t remember that Mr Cringle has ever asked leave.” “Indeed, sir, I neither did ask leave, nor have I thought of doing so,” said I. “But I do for you,” chimed in my friend Whiffle. “Come, captain, give him leave, just for two days, that’s a prime chap. Why, Tom, you see you have got it, so off with you and come to me with your kit as soon as possible; I will hobble on and make the coffee and chocolate; and, Captain Transom, come along and breakfast with me too. No refusal, I require society. Nearly drowned yesterday, do you know that? Off this same cursed wharf too--just here. I was looking down at the small fish playing about the piles, precisely in this position; one of them was as bright in the scales as a gold fish in my old grandmother’s glass globe, and I had to crane over the ledge in this fashion,” suiting the action to the word, “when away I went”-- And, to our unutterable surprise, splash went Peregrine Whiffle, Esquire, for the second time, and there--he was shouting, and puffing, and splashing in the water. We were both so convulsed with laughter that I believe he would have been drowned for us; but the boat-keeper of the gig, the strong athletic negro before mentioned, promptly jumped on the wharf with his boat-hook, and caught the dapper little old beau by the waistband of his breeches, swaying him up, frightened enough, with his little coat skirts fluttering in the breeze, and no wonder, but not much the worse for it all. “Diable porte l’amour,” whispered Captain Transom. “Swallowed a Scotch pint of salt water to a certainty--run, Pilfer, bring me some brandy--gout will be into my stomach, sure as fate--feel him now--run, Pilfer, run, or gout will beat you--a dead heat that will be!” And he keckled at his small joke very complacently. We had him carried by our people to his lodgings, where, after shifting and brandying to some tune, he took his place at the breakfast table, and did the honours with his usual amenity and warm heartedness. After breakfast Peregrine remembered, what the sly rogue had never forgotten I suspect, that he was engaged to dine with his friend Mr Pepperpot Wagtail, in Kingston.