“Doctor, you have not prescribed for me yet.” “No, Caboose, I have not; what is wrong?” “Wrong, sir? why, I have lost my leg, and the Captain’s clerk says I am not in the Return!--Look here, sir, had Doctor Kelson not coopered me, where should I have been?--Why, Doctor, had I been looked after, amputation might have been unnecessary; a fish might have done, whereas I have had to be spliced.” He was here cut short by the voice of his mate, who had gone forward to slay a pig for the gunroom mess. “Oh, Lad, oh!--Massa Caboose!--Dem dam Yankee!--De Purser killed, massa!--Dem shoot him troo de head!--Oh, Lad!” Captain Deadeye had come on deck. “You John Crow, what is wrong with you?” “Why, de Purser killed, Captain, dat all.” “Purser killed?--Doctor, is Saveall hurt?” Treenail could stand it no longer. “No, sir, no; it is one of the gunroom pigs that we shipped at Halifax three cruises ago; I am sure I don’t know how he survived one, but the seamen took a fancy to him, and nicknamed him the Purser. You know, sir, they make pets of any thing, and every thing, at a pinch!” Here John Crow drew the carcass from the hog-pen, and sure enough a shot had cut the poor Purser’s head nearly off. Blackee looked at him with a most whimsical expression; they saynno one can fathom a negro’s affection for a pig. “Poor Purser! de people call him Purser, sir, because him knowing chap; him cabbage all de grub, slush, and stuff in him own corner, and give only de small bit, and de bad piece, to de older pig; so Captain.” Splinter saw the poor fellow was like to get into a scrape. “That will do, John Crow--forward with you now, and lend a hand to cat the anchor.--All hands up anchor!” The boatswain’s hoarse voice repeated the command, and he n turn was re-echoed by his mates. The capstan was manned, and the crew stamped, round to a point of wart most villainously performed by a bad drummer and a worse fifer, in as high glee as if those who were killed had been snug and well in their hammocks on the berth-deck--, in place of at the bottom of the sea, with each a shot at his feet. We weighed, and began to work up, tack and tack, towards the island of Ireland, where the arsenal is, amongst a perfect labyrinth of shoals, through which the Mudian pilot conned the ship with great skill, taking his stand, to our no small wonderment, not at the gangway or poop, as usual, but on the bowsprit end, so that he might see the rocks under foot, and shun them accordingly, for they are so steep and numerous, (they look like large fish in the clear water,) and the channel is so intricate, that you have to go quite close to them. At noon we arrived at the anchorage, and hauled our moorings on board. We had refitted, and been four days at sea, on our voyage to Jamaica, when the gunroom officers gave our mess a blow-out.