So off we started in groups.--Fyall, Captain Transom, Whiffle, Aaron Bang, and myself, sallied forth in a bunch, pretty well inclined for a lark, you may guess. There are no lamps in the streets of Kingston, and as all the decent part of the community are in their cavies by half-past nine in the evening, and as it was now “the witching time o’ night,” there was not a soul in the streets that we saw, except a solitary town guard now and then, lurking about some dark corner under the piazzas. These same streets, which were wide and comfortable enough in the daytime, had become unaccountably narrow and intricate since six o’clock in the evening; and, although the object of the party was to convoy Captain Transom and myself to our boat at the Ordnance Wharf, it struck me that we were as frequently on a totally different tack. “I say, Cringle, my boy,” stuttered out my superior, Lieutenant and Captain being both drowned in and equalized by the claret--“why, Tom, Tom Cringle, you dog--don’t you hear your superior officer speak, sir, eh?” My superior officer, during this address, was standing with both arms round a pillar of the piazza. “I am here, sir,” said I. “Why, I know that; but why don’t you speak when I Hillo where’s Aaron, and Fyall, and the rest, eh?” They had been attracted by sounds of revelry in a splendid mansion in the next street, which we could see was lit up with great brilliancy, and had at this time shot about fifty yards ahead of us, working to windward, tack and tack, like Commodore Trunnion. “Ah, I see,” said Transom; “let us heave ahead, Tom--now, do ye hear?-- stand you with your white trowsers against the next pillar.” The ranges supporting the piazza were at distances of about twenty feet from each other.--“Ah, stand there now--I see it.”--So he weighted from the one he had tackled to, and making a staggering bolt of it, ran up to the pillar against which I stood, its position being marked by my white vestments, where he again hooked on for a second or two, until I had taken up a new position. “There, my boy, that’s the way to lay out a warp--right in the wind’s eye, Tom--we shall fairly beat those lubbers who are tacking in the stream--nothing like warping in the dead water near the shore--mark that down, Tom--never beat in a tideway when you can warp up along shore in the dead water--Damn the judge’s ice” (hiccup) “he has poisoned me with that piece he plopped in my last whitewash of Madeira. He a judge! He may be a good crim--criminal judge, but no judge of wine--Why don’t you laugh, Tom, eh?--and then his saw--the rasp of a saw I hate--wish it, and a whole nest more, had been in his legal stomach--full of old saws Shakespeare--he, he--why don’t you laugh, Tom?--Poisoned by the judge, by Jupiter--Now, here we are fairly abreast of them--Hillo! Fyall, what are you after?” “Hush, hush,” said Fyall, with drunken gravity. “And hush, hush,” said Aaron Bang.