"Why, you see, Paul, I don't understand these things," said Matthew, impatiently; "but I feel you are right about us poor dogs never wishing to bite the foreigners—for I never had such a thought till I got on board ship. But why is it that great folks wish to shed blood at such a rate? What do they want, and what would they have? 'Zounds! if I have but my bit o' bacco, and can rest at night, I'm as happy as any of 'em. And then, again, Paul, why is it—excuse me, Paul, if I seem to talk foolish; I'm older than you, but you always had more book larning, I'm well aware—why is it that the poor don't let the rich fight their battles themselves, if they want any fighting?" "Why, there, now, you old billy-goat!" exclaimed Paul, laughing; "you know that both you and I were dragged off by the press-gang, just as we were about to step on shore at Wapping; and were not thousands hauled away, in the same manner, throughout the war? 'Why is it that we don't let 'em fight their own battles themselves' indeed! why, you know, Mat, the poor dogs are compelled to obey the rich ones, in this world. What I want you to see is that the rich dogs make these wars on purpose to keep the poor dogs under. And yet I don't know, Matthew, that either you or I can alter things: it is past our time o' life; and, besides, I believe the whole consarn will before long tumble to pieces of itself, for the world's about tired of it." "Blow me!" exclaimed Matthew, completely wearied of the subject, and anxious to resume his usual careless and happy vein, "if I can see the use of all your palaver, Paul: you may be right, in the main, but then you make no sail, take as many tacks as you will. You still end by saying the poor dogs are forced to bark and bite as the rich dogs bid 'em; and you own that we're both too old to do aught towards bettering things; and, besides, you say the consarn's doomed to fall to pieces by its own rottenness; and so, instead of bothering my old brains about it, I still say, as I did when we got out of the Dutchmen's firkin, 'Butter your shirt! sing tantarara-bobus make shift!'" The argument was ended with a hearty laugh on both sides, for, as toughly as Paul had spun his yarn, it was clear, from his last observation, that he was beginning to esteem his work as "labour in vain." That day and another passed in calling old times to mind; and, on the fourth day, the two ancient friends and fellows in many a storm and broil, parted, never to meet again on the lee-shore of Time.