You observe that Jack Pickersgill has two excellent supporters in Corbett and Morrison; his other men are good seamen, active, and obedient, which is all that he requires. I shall not particularly introduce them.
“Now you may call for another litre, my lads, and that, must be the last; the tide is flowing fast, and we shall be afloat in half an hour, and we have just the breeze we want. What d’ye think, Morrison, shall we have dirt?”
“I’ve been looking just now, and if it were any other month in the year I should say, yes; but there’s no trusting April, captain. Howsomever, if it does blow off, I’ll promise you a fog in three hours afterwards.”
“That will do as well. Corbett, have you settled with Duval?”
“Yes, after more noise and charivari than a panic in the Stock Exchange would make in England. He fought and squabbled for an hour, and I found that, without some abatement, I never should have settled the affair.”
“What did you let him off?”
“Seventeen sous,” replied Corbett, laughing.
“And that satisfied him?” inquired Pickersgill.
“Yes—it was all he could prove to be a surfaire: two of the knives were a little rusty. But he will always have something off; he could not be happy without it. I really think he would commit suicide if he had to pay a bill without a deduction.”
“Let him live,” replied Pickersgill. “Jeannette, a bottle of Volnay of 1811, and three glasses.”