“Ah!” exclaimed Captain Tartar, drawing his breath with astonishment and compressing his lips.
“Tartar, the wine stands with you,” said Jack, “allow me to help you.”
Captain Tartar threw himself back in his chair, and let all the air out of his chest with a sort of whistle, as if he could hardly contain himself.
“Have you had wine enough?” said Jack, very politely; “if so, we will go to the Marquesa’s.”
The coxswain came to the door, touched his hat to the captain, and looked significantly.
“And so, sir,” cried Captain Tartar, in a voice of thunder, rising from his chair, “you’re a damned runaway midshipman, who, if you belonged to my ship, instead of marrying Donna Agnes, I would marry you to the gunner’s daughter, by God! Two midshipmen sporting plain clothes in the best society in Palermo, and having the impudence to ask a post-captain to dine with them! To ask me, and address me as Tartar, and my dear fellow! you infernal young scamps!” continued Captain Tartar, now boiling with rage, and striking his fist on the table so as to set all the glasses waltzing.
“Allow me to observe, sir,” said Jack, who was completely sobered by the address, “that we do not belong to your ship, and that we are in plain clothes.”
“In plain clothes—midshipmen in mufti—yes, you are so: a couple of young swindlers, without a sixpence in your pocket, passing yourselves off as young men of fortune, and walking off through the window without paying your bill.”
“Do you mean to call me a swindler, sir?” replied Jack.
“Yes, sir, you—”