Tom tugged away, and soon “brought up” at the door of a wine-vaults.
“Let go the anchor,” exclaimed his messmate—“that's it—coil up.”
“Here, mate—here's a picter of his royal majesty”—giving the sailor alongside a new guinea—“and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health—God bless him.”
“Hooray!” shouted the delighted mob.
Their quondam friend soon did his bidding, bringing out a huge china-bowl filled with grog, which was handed round to every soul within reach, and presently dispatched;—two others followed, before they “weighed anchor and proceeded on their voyage,” cheered by the ragged multitude, among whom they lavishly scattered their change; and a most riotous and ridiculous scramble it produced.
I was much pleased with the novelty of the scene, and escaped from the crowd as quickly as I conveniently could, for I was rather apprehensive of an attempt upon my pockets.
What strange beings are these sailors! They have no care for the morrow, but spend lavishly the hard-earned wages of their adventurous life. To one like myself, who early knew the value of money, this thoughtless extravagance certainly appeared unaccountable, and nearly allied to madness; but, when I reflected that they are sometimes imprisoned in a ship for years, without touching land, and frequently in peril of losing their lives—that they have scarcely time to scatter their wages and prize-money in the short intervals which chance offers them of mixing with their fellow-men, my wonder changed to pity.
“A man in a ship,” says Dr. Johnson, “is worse than a man in a jail; for the latter has more room, better food, and commonly better company, and is in safety.”
CHAPTER XII.—Monsieur Dubois.
“I sha'nt fight with fistesses, it's wulgar!—but if he's a mind to anything like a gemman, here's my card!”