When I afterwards heard of Chatham as being the universal depôt of “ladies who love wisely and not too well,” rogues and Jews, I could not help thinking of my writing-desk, and adding to the list, Jewesses also.
About a week after, we were still lying at Sheerness, and I had totally forgotten the innocent-looking Jemima. Mr Pridhomme was smoking in a lover-like and melancholy fashion, against orders, a short pipe in the midshipmen’s berth. As the ashes accumulated, he became at a loss for a tobacco-stopper, and I very good-naturedly handed him over the broken, broad-topped, vulgar-looking pencil-case, the gift of the adorable Jemima. His apathy, at the sight of this relic of love, dispersed like the smoke of his pipe.
“Where did you get this, younker?” he cried, swelling with passion, in the true turkey-cock style.
“It was given to me as a keepsake by Miss Jemima,” said I, very quietly.
“It’s a lie—you stole it.”
“You old scoundrel!”
“You young villain!”
“Take that!” roared my opponent; and the bread-basket, with its fragmental cargo of biscuits, came full in my face, very considerately putting bread into my mouth for his supposed injury.
“Take that!” said I, seizing the rum-bottle.
“No, he sha’n’t,” said Pigtop, the master’s mate, laying hold of the much-prized treasure, “let him take anything but that.”