and the mates were even worse. All hands were pelted with belaying pins, and besides we were half starved. There happened to be a “tender” for a British man-of-war drumming up recruits for the English navy in the harbor, so I and two others put our shirts in the fire rigging (a sign that the officers of the tender well knew.) They sent an armed boat aboard, and I, together with about a dozen others, said we were British seamen, and volunteered to fight for the “widow,” as the sailors call the Queen. We left in the tender for Malta, and were enrolled among the crew of the line-of-battle ship Brunswick, where we were put through our facings I can tell you. We commenced by giving cheek, but they soon took the nonsense out of us with the cat-o’-nine-tails. Well, to make a long story as short as possible. I was drafted into a corvette going home to Liverpool. I deserted on the first opportunity, and shipped again for New York. This was during the rebellion. I then joined the Yankee navy and arose to the high position of captain of the foretop on the United States frigate Essex. At Baton Rouge I was struck by a piece of shell in the leg, and sent to hospital, where I remained until the war was over, when I was mustered out of the service. I had a right to a grant of land from the government, but I sold it to a broker and spent the money for whisky. Since that time I’ve been knocking around through the States on the tramp. I can’t ship before the mast, for my leg is so stiff that I am unable to go aloft. The only comfortable time I have is when I can manage to get into some hospital, where I get plenty of nourishment and a good bed to sleep in. However, here I am now, but where I’ll be to-morrow the Lord only knows.” “Do you ever think of going home?” asked the scribe. “Home! Well, I should think not. They, of course, think me dead long ago, and I don’t want to disgrace them, anyway. My old father used to say, ‘As ye make your bed, so shall ye lie,’ or something like that. I’ve found it so, and must take the consequence.” “Oh, I tell you,” added the jolly tar, “there are thousands like me knocking around at sea.” “Take another bowl?” asked I. “Don’t care if I do,” said the sailor. “There’s no use being poor when a half a pint of WHISKY MAKES YOU RICH.” “Well, see here, old fellow,” said I, “I don’t wish to be impertinent, but don’t you think grog has been at the bottom of all your troubles?” “No I don’t,” was his reply. “I never was much of a swizzer until lately. It’s my own inherent vagabond nature that has made me the tramp I am. Whisky has been the ruin of many a good man, but I don’t blame it in my case.” “Well, good-bye old fellow,” said I; “I hope you’ll strike luck some of these days.” “Good-bye,” said the ancient mariner, and as I departed I heard him order another glass of the ardent to be drank au solitaire.