Forthwith they burst forth into "The British Grenadiers?" and never did tin whistles render the famous old tune with more fire, and dash. As the stirring notes rang out, the Sergeant, standing upon the hearth, seemed to grow taller, his broad chest expanded, his eyes glowed, a flush crept up into his cheek, and the whole man thrilled to the music as he had done, many a time and oft, in years gone by. As the last notes died away, he glanced down at the empty sleeve pinned across his breast, shook his head, and thanking them in a very gruff voice indeed, turned on his heel, and busied himself at his little cupboard. Peterday now rose, and set a jug together with three glasses upon the table, also spoons, and a lemon, keeping his "weather-eye" meanwhile, upon the kettle,—which last, condescending to boil obligingly, he rapped three times with his wooden leg.
"Right O, shipmate!" he cried, very much as though he had been hailing the "main-top," whereupon the Sergeant emerged from between the clothes-press and the dresser with a black bottle in his hand, which he passed over to Peterday who set about brewing what he called a "jorum o' grog," the savour of which filled the place with a right pleasant fragrance. And, when the glasses brimmed, each with a slice of lemon a-top,—the Sergeant solemnly rose.
"Mr. Bellew, and comrade," said he, lifting his glass, "I give you—Miss
Priscilla!"
"God bless her!" said Peterday.
"Amen!" added Bellew. So the toast was drunk,—the glasses were emptied, re-filled, and emptied again,—this time more slowly, and, the clock striking nine, Bellew rose to take his leave. Seeing which, the Sergeant fetched his hat and stick, and volunteered to accompany him a little way. So when Bellew had shaken the sailor's honest hand, they set out together.
"Sergeant," said Bellew, after they had walked some distance, "I have a message for you."
"For me, sir?"
"From Miss Priscilla."
"From—indeed, sir!"
"She bid me tell you that—the peaches are riper to-night than ever they were."