"'Two days after this confab, yer honour, I saw the colours of the Prince Royal slowly rise from the tafferel, as if they didn't like the duty they were on; and then they hung mournfully half-way between deck and the gaff-end: in three minutes, every ship in the fleet had her colours hoisted half-mast, that well-known signal that some officer has struck his flag to death. Poor Charley was no more! A circular was sent from the commodore, to order two boats from every ship in the fleet to attend the funeral--and a grand funeral it was. It was a beautiful sight to see the procession, yer honour. There was the boat, with the coffin in the starn-sheets, covered with a union-jack; and the mourners sitting on each side of it, towed by one of the Prince's cutters; all her crew in mourning, with black crape round their arms, and pulling minute-strokes. Then came the Prince's launch, towed by another boat, full of the ship's company, who had all asked leave to see the last of their officer. Poor fellows! sincere mourners I believe they were. Then, sir, there was a long line of boats from each quarter of the long-boat, all following in each other's wake, and stretching from one end of the reach to the other. As soon as the boat with the coffin in it shoved off from the Prince, her bell began to toll slowly, and, as it passed the gangway of the next ship, her bell took up the knell, and so on all up the fleet. It was a beautiful sight, yer honour, to see the long lines of boats, with their neat jacks fluttering half-mast from the staffs; the men of each boat dressed alike; some crews in blue jackets; others in white, but all with the crape round their arms: then the flags of all the fleet--English, French, American, and Dutch--waving, mournful-like, half-mast high; not a sound to be heard, yer honour, but the dull sound of the minute-strokes, and the fluttering of the colours, and the long clear tones of the bells, as they died away further and further up the fleet:--oh, sir, it was a sad and a beautiful sight! He was buried, where all the other English officers are buried, on French Island. Well, yer honour, now comes the end of the business. Three days afterwards I was quartermaster of the deck, and was standing on the foksle, when I see'd three boats a-passing, with their jacks half-mast, and a coffin in the starn-sheets of the foremost on 'em; so says I to Tom Rattlin, the captain of the foksle--"Tom," says I, "what boats is them?"--"The Prince's," says he; "I believe her carpenter is dead." And sure enough it was the carpenter, sir; the ghost didn't tell him no lie; his signal for sailing was made at the very time he named. Now, sir, after that yarn, will you tell me that there are no such things as ghosts? It was my old shipmate, Bill Buntling, that told me; and, if all tales are true, that's no lie.'