“Why,” replied the pensioner, “there was a report that some English and French smugglers broke out of prison that night, and they tried to make the skipper believe that he was deceived as to the rats; but the thing was impossible, for how could the smuggler get through the great gates and pass the sentries? Besides they wouldn’t have turned tail that fashion for one ould man.” “But the alarm, old boy,” exclaimed I; “the skipper gave an alarm, and the _rats_ were afraid of being _trapped_ again.” “Why, for the matter o’ that, sir,” assented the veteran, “he did kick up a bit of a bobbery, I own; and the do-oneers came running down from the watch-house, but nobody was taken.” “That’s curious, too,” said I, “but had they no other means of escape?” “Why, they did say,” replied the old tar, “that a fishing-boat was missing from somewhere about the mouth of the harbour; but the captain swore to the rats, and ever afterwards used to give the ould woman a trifle of money or so, and speak kindly to her. And d’ye see, sir, I’m thinking that Captain Hammond couldn’t be mistaken as to the rats, because why?--a rat hasn’t a head like a Christian; and then his tail,--no Christian has a tail like a spanker boom over his starn, and so I’ll stick to the rats, for I verily believe they were nothing else.” “No doubt,” said I, addressing the boatswain’s-mate, “you have seen a great deal of hard service. Have you been in many battles?” “Why yes, your honour,” he replied, “I’ve had my share of it; but notwithstanding the many chafes I got, if another war was to break out, and I was fifty years younger, provided I could get a good captain and a sweet ship, worthy messmates and a full allowance of grog, I’d sooner sarve in a man-of-war than in any other craft whatsomever. But mark my words, we shan’t never have another such a navy as the last. Arn’t they _arming_ the ships on purpose for them to make use of their _legs_, and run away? What would ould Benbow or Duncan have said to this, with their round starns and chase batteries? Arn’t the fleet got the _dry-rot_ with fundungus, and don’t the new regulations bid fair to give the men the _dry-rot_ too? Who the deuce could weather a storm or engage an enemy upon a pint of grog a-day? But as long as there’s a shot in the locker, it shall go hard but we’ll queer the purser somehow or other, after all.