"A fine fellow is Dick, sir!" nodded Peterday, beginning to fill a long clay pipe, "Lord!—what a sailor he 'd ha' made, to be sure!—failing which he's as fine a soldier as ever was, or will be, with enough war-medals to fill my Sunday hat, sir. When he lost his arm they gave him the V.C., and his discharge, sir,—because why—because a soldier wi' one arm ain't any more good than a sailor wi' one leg, d'ye see. So they tried to discharge Dick, but—Lord love you!—they couldn't, sir,—because why?—because Dick were a soldier bred and born, and is as much a soldier to-day, as ever he was,—ah! and always will be—until he goes marching aloft,—like poor Tom Bowling,—until one as is General of all the armies, and Admiral of all the fleets as ever sailed, shall call the last muster roll, sir. At this present moment, sir," continued the sailor, lighting his pipe with a live coal from the fire, "my messmate is a-sitting to the leeward o' the plum tree outside, a polishing of his jack-boots,—as don't need polishing, and a burnishing of his spurs,—as don't need burnishing. And because why?—because he goes on guard, to-night, according to custom."
"On guard!" repeated Bellew, "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Of course you don't, sir," chuckled Peterday, "well then, to-night he marches away—in full regimentals, sir,—to mount guard. And—where, do you suppose?—why, I'll tell you,—under Miss Priscilla's window! He gets there as the clock is striking eleven, and there he stays, a marching to and fro, until twelve o'clock. Which does him a world o' good, sir, and noways displeases Miss Priscilla,—because why?—because she don't know nothing whatever about it." Hereupon, Peterday rose, and crossing to a battered sea-man's chest in the corner, came back with three or four tin whistles which he handed to Bellew, who laid aside his pipe, and, having selected one, ran tentatively up and down the scale while Peterday listened attentive of ear, and beaming of face.
"Sir," said he, "what do you say to 'Annie Laurie' as a start—shall we give 'em 'Annie Laurie'?—very good!—ready?—go!"
Thus, George Bellew, American citizen, and millionaire, piped away on a tin whistle with all the gusto in the world,—introducing little trills, and flourishes, here and there, that fairly won the one-legged sailor's heart.
They had already "given 'em" three or four selections, each of which had been vociferously encored by Peterday, or Bellew,—and had just finished an impassioned rendering of the "Suwanee River," when the Sergeant appeared with his boots beneath his arm.
"Shipmate!" cried Peterday, flourishing his whistle, "did ye ever hear a tin whistle better played, or mellerer in tone?"
"Meller—is the only word for it, comrade,—and your playing sirs, is—artistic—though doleful. P'raps you wouldn't mind giving us something brighter—a rattling quick-step? P'raps you might remember one as begins:
'Some talk of Alexander
And some, of Hercules;'
if it wouldn't be troubling you too much?"