“Why, Peter,” continued the Lieutenant, “don’t you know me?” “Cannot say dat I do,” rejoined the negro, very gravely, without lifting his head, as he sat mending his jacket in one of the embrasures near the water gate of the arsenal--“Have not de honour of your acquaintance, sir.” He then resumed his scream, for song it could not be called:-- “Mammy Sally’s daughter, Lose him shoe in an old canoe, Dat lay halffull of water, And den she knew not what to do. Jiggery, jig”-- “Confound your jiggery, jiggery, sir! But I know you well enough, my man; and you can scarcely have forgotten Lieutenant Splinter of the Torch, one would think?” However, it was clear that the poor fellow really had not known us; for the name so startled him, that, in his hurry to unlace his legs from under him, as he sat tailor-fashion, he fairly capsized out of his perch, and toppled down on his nose--a feature fortunately so flattened by the hand of nature, that I question if it could have been rendered more obtuse had he fallen out of the maintop on a timber-head, or a marine officer’s. “Eh!--no--yes, him sure enough; and who is de picaniny hofficer--Oh! I see, Massa Tom Cringle? Garamighty, gentlemen, where have you drop from?--Where is de old Torch? Many a time hab I Peter Mangrove, pilot to Him Britanic Majesty squadron, taken de old brig in and through amongst de keys at Port Royal!” “Ay, and how often did you scour her copper against the coral reefs, Peter?” His Majesty’s pilot gave a knowing look, and laid his hand on his breast “No more of dat if you love me, massa.” “Well, well, it don’t signify now, my boy; she will never give you that trouble again--foundered--all hands lost, Peter, but the two you see before you.” “Werry sorry, Massa Plinter, werry sorry--What! de black cooksmate and all?--But misfortune can’t be help. Stop till I put up my needle, and I will take a turn wid you.” Here he drew himself up with a great deal of absurd gravity. “Proper dat British hofficer in distress should assist one anoder--We shall consult togeder.--How can I serve you?” “Why, Peter, if you could help us to a passage to Port Royal, it would be serving us most essentially. When we used to be lying there, a week seldom passed without one of the squadron arriving from this; but here have we been for more than a month, without a single pennant belonging to the station having looked in: our money is running short, and if we are to hold on in Carthagena for another six weeks, we shall not have a shot left in the locker--not a copper to tinkle on a tombstone.” The negro looked steadfastly at us, then carefully around. There was no one near. “You see, Massa Plinter, I am desirable to serve you, for one little reason of my own; but, beside dat, it is good for me at present to make some friend wid de hofficer of de squadron, being as how dat I am absent widout leave.”