At length dinner was announced, and I was invited, as the officer in charge of the seamen, to go down. The party in the cabin consisted of an old gizzened Major with a brown wig, and a voice melodious as the sharpening of a saw--I fancied sometimes that the vibration created by it set the very glasses in the steward’s pantry a-ringing three captains and six subalterns, every man of whom, as the devil would have it, played on the flute, and drew bad sketches, and kept journals. Most of them were very white and blue in the gills when we sat down, and others of a dingy sort of whitey-brown, while they ogled the viands in a most suspicious manner. Evidently most of them had but small confidence in their moniplies; and one or two, as the ship gave a heavier roll than usual, looked wistfully towards the door, and half rose from their chairs, as if in act to bolt. However, hot brandy grog being the order of the day, we all, landsmen and sailors, got on astonishingly, and numberless long yarns were spun of what “what’s-his-name of this, and so-and-so of t’other, did or did not do.” About half-past five in the evening, the captain of the transport, or rather the agent, an old lieutenant in the navy, and our host, rang his bell for the steward. “Whereabouts are we in the fleet, steward?” said the ancient. “The stern most ship of all, sir,” said the man. “Where is the Commodore?” “About three miles a-head, sir.” “And the Torch, has she rejoined us?” “No, sir; she has been out of sight these two hours; when last seen she was in chase of something in the south-east quarter, and carrying all the sail she could stagger under.” “Very well, very well.” A song from Master Waistbelt, one of the young officers. Before he had concluded, the mate came down. By this time it was near sun-down. “Shall we shake a reef out of the main and mizzen-topsails, sir, and set the mainsail and spanker? The wind has lulled, sir, and there is a strange sail in the northwest that seems to be dodging us--but she may be one of the merchantmen after all, sir.” “Never mind, Mr Leechline,” said our gallant captain. “Mr Bandalier--a song if you please.” Now the young soldiers on board happened to be men of the world, and Bandalier, who did not sing, turned off the request with a good-humoured laugh, alleging his inability with much suavity; but the old rough Turk of a tar-bucket chose to fire at this, and sang out--“Oh, if you don’t choose to sing when you are asked, and to sport your damned fine airs....” “Mr Crowfoot.” “Captain,” said the agent, piqued at having his title by courtesy withheld. “By no mean,” said Major Sawrasp, who had spoken--“I believe I am speaking to Lieutenant Crowfoot, agent for transport No.--, wherein it so happens I am commanding officer--so”-- Old Crowfoot saw he was in the wrong box, and therefore hove about, and backed out in good time--making the amende as smoothly as his gruff nature admitted, and trying to look pleased.