Upon S’thampton shore!
Chorus, gen’men, chorus!
We wait ye ri’ and hearty,
Oh, Mou’seer Buonaparte,
Upo’ S’thampton shore!”
He thumped the table, did that crapulous squireen, and all the others joined in, as by honour expected—like school-boys beating the bounds of time.
Truth to tell, the hour was late, the whisky-punch was low in the bowl, and the three little moon-calves were very drunk. One of them, moreover, was in process of insulting Captain Luvaine.
“You’re no’ good company, sir,” he had said, after staring at that baneful person for some solemn moments. “I thick you no’ goo’ company, and I—hic!—ta’ leaverer-telleso”;—and he nodded profoundly, with the air of one who has solved a long-vexing problem.
“Well, sir,” said the captain, “you’re welcome to your opinion for me.”
He had sat out the orgy; but with something a gloomy and preoccupied air, and with a frequent manner of impatience to have it ended.