“If,” spluttered out Captain Reud, see-sawing over the yet concealed thing. “If, Mr Paviour, you can pave your way down a river—”
“My name, sir, is Don Alphonso Ribidiero da Silva,” said the annoyed lieutenant, with a dignified bow.
“Well, then, Don Alphonso Ribs-are-dear-o damned Silva, if you can pave your way down a river, let us see how you can pave it in a small way down this hog-trough full of water,” plucking away, with the assistance of his confederates, the ensign that covered it.
“With fools’ heads,” roared out the exasperated, and, I fear, not very sober, Portuguese.
Though I was close by, I could not fully comprehend the whole manoeuvre. The captain was head and shoulders immersed in the filthy trough, which, uncleaned, was taken from the manger, that part of the main-deck directly under the forecastle, and filled with salt water. The doctor and purser had taken a greater lurch, and fallen over it, sousing their white waistcoats and well-arranged shirt frills in the dirty mixture. The rest of us contrived to keep our legs. The ship was running before the wind, and rolling considerably, and the motion, aided by the wine and the act of plucking aside the flag, might have precipitated the captain into his unenviable situation; he thought otherwise. No sooner was he placed upon his feet, and his mouth sufficiently clear from the salt water decoction of hog-wash, than he collared the poor victim of persecution, and spluttered out, “Mutiny—mu—mu—mutiny—sentry. Gentlemen, I call you all to witness, that Mr Silva has laid violent hands upon me.”
The “paviour of ways” was immediately put under arrest, and a marine, with a drawn bayonet, placed at his cabin door, and the captain had to repair damages, vowing the most implacable vengeance for having been shoved into his own hog-trough. Did ever anybody know any good come of hoaxing?