Captain. What is your name?
I. Barney Blake, sir.
Captain. Who was your mother?
I. Never had any.
Captain. (With his eyes twinkling more than ever.) Who are you the son of?
I. I'm the son of a sea-cook, was weaned on salt water, reared on sea-biscuit, and am thirsty for prize-money.
"You'll do!" cried the captain, shaking with merriment like a bowl of bonnyclabber, and striking the table with his fat fist. "Boatswain, enter him on the books as Barney Blake, son of a sea-cook; give him a cutlass and two pistols, and make him stand around. Avast, you vagabonds, and look sharp, or I'll be down on you with a cat and spread-eagle!"
The laughter of the captain, as we left him, was anything but in accordance with this monstrous threat.
"Good for you!" whispered Tony, encouragingly, as we ascended the companion-ladder.
He then brought me forward and introduced me to the entire forecastle. His words, upon this occasion, were somewhat characteristic, and here they are: