“Only up to my middle, Sir.”
“Very well—stow away the wreck, and go to your grog. Tell Bunce to give you all double allowance.”
“Thank your honour’s honour!”
The voice ceased: and a pair of ponderous sea-soles, with tramp audible as the marble foot of the Spectre in Giovanni, went hurrying down our main-hatchway. Certain misgivings of a discrepancy between the imputed drenching and the weather, an appeal askance of the rum cask, joined with a curiosity perchance, to inspect the ship-fragments—our flottsom and jettsom, led me soon afterwards below, and there, in the mess-room, sate mine officer, high and dry, with a huge tankard in his starboard hand. I made an obvious remark on it, and had an answer—for Michael Spiller was no adept in the Chesterfieldian refinements—from the interior of the drinking-vessel—
“Your Honour’s right, and I ax your Honour’s pardon. I warn’t wet! but I was very dry!”
A BLOW UP.
“Here we go up, up, up.”—THE LAY OF THE FIRST MINSTREL.