"Sir,—Captain Woodward I'd scorn to tell a lie; and since that ere beautiful speech of yourn I've made a wow never to swear again. No, sir, I'm reformed—I used to swear a little when the last captain was in the ship, but I'm a altered man now, sir. Well, sir, I argyfied with him, civil and peaceful, for a few moments, and then he struck me and threw me down, and jammed my jaws agin the shot-rack, knocking out over fifty teeth, vich he forced me to svaller, as he wouldn't give me time to gasp. Just as he lifted me for the tenth time to heave me upon the shot-rack, my right hand finger somehow slid inside the handle of the winnegar-breaker, and afore I could prevent him, Thomas Blain run his nose clean up agin the breaker and nearly cut it off; upon which he became furious, and would not listen to reason, so I was obliged to repeat the blow in self-defence, as he swore he'd murder me if he could only get at me."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, your honour,—that's all."
Woodward surveyed the men for some moments, then addressed them as follows:—"My men, I am sorry to see you in this plight, and still more, to hear you spin such yarns. I overheard your quarrel, and was disgusted with your obscenity. You, Blain, used language unbecoming a petty officer, and for that I disrate you to be an able seaman. You, Spry, who are old enough to know better, I also disrate; and as I do not consider either of you fit to associate with the decent men of my crew, I direct you shall leave your messes, and be messed together until such time as you are able to agree, and have left off using profane language. Sergeant, send for the ship's steward."
In a few moments Mr. Polson came up from his bread-room, winking and blinking like an owl in the light.
"Steward, to what messes do these men belong?"
"Let me see, sir. Spry belongs to number two mess, and Blain belongs to number seven."
"Very good. How many messes are there?"
"Twelve seamen's, and four Rile marines' messes, sir."
"Can you make a seventeenth mess?"