Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Thirteen
The “fun grows fast and furious”—The Pedagogue does not scan correctly, and his feet become very unequal—An allegorical compliment almost worked up into a literal quarrel—At length the mighty are laid low, and the Dominie hurts his nose
I heard Tom’s treble, and a creaking noise, which I recognised to proceed from the Dominie, who had joined the chorus; and I went aft, if possible to prevent further excess; but I found that the grog had mounted into the Dominie’s head, and all my hints were disregarded. Tom was despatched for the other bottle, and the Dominie’s pannikin was replenished, old Tom roaring out—
“Come, sling the flowing bowl;
Fond hopes arise,
The girls we prize
Shall bless each jovial soul;
The can, boys, bring,
We’ll dance and sing,
While foaming billows roll.
“Now for the chorus again—
“Come, sling the flowing bowl, etcetera.
“Jacob, why don’t you join?” The chorus was given by the whole of us. The Dominie’s voice was even louder, though not quite so musical, as old Tom’s.
“Evoé!” cried the Dominie; “evoé! cantemus.
“Amo, amas—I loved a lass,
For she was tall and slender;
Amas, amat—she laid me flat,
Though of the feminine gender.
“Truly do I not forget the songs of my youth, and of my hilarious days: yet doth the potent spirit work upon me like the god in the Cumean sybil; and I shall soon prophecy that which shall come to pass.”
“So can I,” said Tom, giving me a nudge, and laughing.
“Do thine office of Ganymede, and fill up the pannikin; put not in too much of the element. Once more exalt thy voice, good Dux.”
“Always ready, master,” cried Tom, who sang out again in praise of his favourite liquor—
“Smiling grog is the sailor’s best hope, his sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life’s cares cannot canker.
Though dangers around him,
Unite to confound him,
He braves them, and tips off his grog.
’Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
The sailor’s sheet anchor is grog.”
“Verily, thou art an Apollo—or, rather, referring to thy want of legs, half an Apollo—that is, a demi-god. (Cluck, cluck.) Sweet is thy lyre, friend Dux.”
“Fair words, master; I’m no liar,” cried Tom. “Clap a stopper on your tongue, or you’ll get into disgrace.”
“Ubi lapsus quid feci,” said the Dominie; “I spoke of thy musical tongue; and, furthermore, I spoke alle-gori-cal-ly.”
“I know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as for telling a hell of a (something) lie, as you states, I say I never did,” rejoined old Tom, who was getting cross in his cups.
I now interfered, as there was every appearance of a fray; and in spite of young Tom, who wished, as he termed it, to kick up a shindy, prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for nearly five minutes. When this was ended, I again entreated the Dominie not to drink any more, but to go to bed.
“Amice, Jacobe,” replied the Dominie; “the liquor hath mounted into thy brain, and thou wouldst rebuke thy master and thy preceptor. Betake thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. Verily, Jacob, thou art plenus Veteris Bacchi; or, in plain English, thou art drunk. Canst thou conjugate, Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou decline, Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou scan, Jacob? I fear not. Nay, Jacob, methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy vision. Canst thou hear, Jacob? if so, I will give thee an oration against inebriety, with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. Wilt thou have it in Latin or in Greek?”
“O, damn your Greek and Latin!” cried old Tom; “keep that for to-morrow. Sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall I sing you one? Here goes—
“For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger’s drown’d,
We despise it to a man;
We sing a little—”
“Sing a little,” bawled the Dominie.
“And laugh a little—”
“Laugh a little,” chorused young Tom.
“And work a little—”
“Work a little,” cried the Dominie.
“And swear a little—”
“Swear not a little,” echoed Tom.
“And fiddle a little—”
“Fiddle a little,” hiccuped the Dominie.
“And foot it a little—”
“Foot it a little,” repeated Tom.
“And swig the flowing can,
And fiddle a little,
And foot it a little,
And swig the flowing can—”
roared old Tom, emptying his pannikin.
“And swig the flowing can—”
followed the Dominie, tossing off his.
“And swig the flowing can—”
cried young Tom turning up his pannikin empty.
“Hurrah! that’s what I calls glorious. Let’s have it over again, and then we’ll have another dose. Come, now, all together.” Again was the song repeated; and when they came to “foot it a little,” old Tom jumped on his stumps, seizing hold of the Dominie, who immediately rose, and the three danced round and round for a minute or two, singing the song and chorus, till old Tom, who was very far gone, tripped against the coamings of the hatchway, pitching his head into the Dominie’s stomach, who fell backwards, clinging to young Tom’s hand; so that they all rolled on the deck together—my worthy preceptor underneath the other two.
“Foot it rather too much that time, father,” said young Tom, getting up the first, and laughing. “Come, Jacob, let’s put father on his pins again; he can’t rise without a purchase.” With some difficulty, we succeeded. As soon as he was on his legs again, old Tom put a hand upon each of our shoulders, and commenced, with a drunken leer—
“What though his timbers they are gone,
And he’s a slave to tipple,
No better sailor e’er was born
Than Tom, the jovial cripple.
“Thanky, my boys, thanky; now rouse up the old gentleman. I suspect we knocked the wind out of him. Hollo, there, are you hard and fast?”
“The bricks are hard, and verily my senses are fast departing,” quoth the Dominie, rousing himself, and sitting up, staring around him.
“Senses going, do you say, master?” cried old Tom. “Don’t throw them overboard till we have made a finish. One more pannikin apiece, one more song, and then to bed. Tom, where’s the bottle?”
“Drink no more, sir, I beg; you’ll be ill to-morrow,” said I to the Dominie.
“Deprome quadrimum,” hiccuped the Dominie. “Carpe diem—quam minimum—creula postero.—Sing, friend Dux—Quem virum—sumes celebrare—music amicus.—Where’s my pattypan?—We are not Thracians—Natis in usum—laetitae scyphis pugnare—(hiccup)—Thracum est—therefore we—will not fight—but we will drink—recepto dulce mihi furere est amico—Jacob, thou art drunk—sing, friend Dux, or shall I sing?
“Propria quae maribus had a little dog,
Quae genus was his name—
“My memory faileth me—what was the tune?”
“That tune was the one the old cow died of, I’m sure,” replied Tom. “Come, old Nosey, strike up again.”
“Nosey, from nasus—truly, it is a fair epithet; and it remindeth me that my nose—suffered in the fall which I received just now. Yet I cannot sing—having no words—”
“Nor tune, either, master,” replied old Tom; “so here goes for you—
“Young Susan had lovers, so many that she
Hardly knew upon which to decide;
They all spoke sincerely, and promised to be
All worthy of such a sweet bride.
In the morning she’d gossip with William, and then
The noon will be spent with young Harry,
The evening with Tom; so, amongst all the men,
She never could tell which to marry.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
“It pleaseth me—it ringeth in mine ears—yea, most pleasantly. Proceed,—the girl was as the Pyrrha of Horace—
“Quis multa gracillis—te puer in rosa—
Perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus.
Grate, Pyrrha—sub antro?”
“That’s all high Dutch to me, master; but I’ll go on if I can. My memory box be a little out of order. Let me see—oh!
“Now William grew jealous, and so went away;
Harry got tired of wooing;
And Tom having teased her to fix on the day,
Received but a frown for so doing;
So, ’mongst all her lovers, quite left in the lurch,
She pined every night on her pillow;
And meeting one day a pair going to church,
Turned away, and died under a willow.
Heigho! I am afraid
Too many lovers will puzzle a maid.
“Now, then, old gentleman, tip off your grog. You’ve got your allowance, as I promised you.”
“Come, master, you’re a cup too low,” said Tom, who, although in high spirits, was not at all intoxicated; indeed, as I afterwards found, he could carry more than his father. “Come, shall I give you a song?”
“That’s right, Tom; a volunteer’s worth two pressed men. Open your mouth wide, an’ let your whistle fly away with the gale. You whistles in tune, at all events.”
Tom then struck up, the Dominie see-sawing as he sat, and getting very sleepy—
“Luck in life, or good or bad,
Ne’er could make me melancholy;
Seldom rich, yet never sad,
Sometimes poor, yet always jolly.
Fortune’s in my scale, that’s poz,
Of mischance put more than half in;
Yet I don’t know how it was,
I could never cry for laughing—
Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
“Now for chorus, father—
“Ha! ha! ha! Ha! ha! ha!
I could never cry for laughing.
“That’s all I know; and that’s enough, for it won’t wake up the old gentleman.”
But it did. “Ha, ha, ha—ha, ha, ha! I could never die for laughing,” bawled out the Dominie, feeling for his pannikin; but this was his last effort. He stared round him. “Verily, verily, we are in a whirlpool—how everything turneth round and round! Who cares? Am I not an ancient mariner—‘Qui videt mare turgidum—et infames scopulos.’ Friend Dux, listen to me—favet linguis.”
“Well,” hiccuped old Tom, “so I will—but speak—plain English—as I do.”
“That I’ll be hanged if he does,” said Tom to me. “In half an hour more I shall understand old Nosey’s Latin just as well as his—plain English, as he calls it.”
“I will discuss in any language—that is—in any tongue—be it in the Greek or the Latin—nay, even—(hiccups)—friend Dux—hast thou not partaken too freely—of—dear me! Quo me, Bacche, rapis tui—plenum—truly I shall be tipsy—and will but finish my pattypan—dulce periculum est—Jacob—can there be two Jacobs?—and two old Toms?—nay—mirabile dictu—there are two young Toms, and two dog Tommies—each with—two tails. Bacche, parce—precor—precor—Jacob, where art thou?—Ego sum tu es—thou art—sumus, we are—where am I? Procumbit humi bos—for Bos—read Dobbs—amo, amas—I loved a lass. Tityre, tu patulae sub teg-mine—nay—I quote wrong—then must I be—I do believe that—I’m drunk.”
“And I’m cock sure of it,” cried Tom, laughing, as the Dominie fell back in a state of insensibility.
“And I’m cock sure of it,” said old Tom, rolling himself along the deck to the cabin hatch “that I’ve as much—as I can stagger—under, at all events—so I’ll sing myself to sleep—’cause why—I’m happy. Jacob—mind you keep all the watches to-night—and Tom may keep the rest.” Old Tom then sat up, leaning his back against the cabin hatch, and commenced one of those doleful ditties which are sometimes heard on the forecastle of a man-of-war; he had one or two of the songs that he always reserved for such occasions. While Tom and I dragged the Dominie to bed, old Tom drawled out his ditty—
“Oh! we sailed to Virgi-ni-a, and thence to Fy-al,
Where we water’d our shipping, and so then weigh-ed all,
Full in view, on the seas—boys—seven sail we did es-py,
O! we man-ned our capstern, and weighed spee-di-ly.
“That’s right, my boys, haul and hold—stow the old Dictionary away—for he can’t command the parts of speech.
“The very next morning—the engagement proved—hot,
And brave Admiral Benbow received a chain-shot.
O when he was wounded to his merry men—he—did—say,
Take me up in your arms, boys, and car-ry me a-way.
“Now, boys, come and help me—Tom—none of your foolery—for your poor old father is—drunk—.”
We assisted old Tom into the other “bed-place” in the cabin. “Thanky, lads—one little bit more, and then I’m done—as the auctioneer says—going—going—
“O the guns they did rattle, and the bul-lets—did—fly,
When brave Benbow—for help loud—did cry,
Carry me down to the cock-pit—there is ease for my smarts,
If my merry men should see me—’twill sure—break—their—hearts.
“Going,—old swan-hopper—as I am—going—gone.”
Tom and I were left on deck.
“Now, Jacob, if you have a mind to turn in. I’m not sleepy—you shall keep the morning watch.”
“No, Tom, you’d better sleep first. I’ll call you at four o’clock. We can’t weigh till tide serves; and I shall have plenty of sleep before that.”
Tom went to bed, and I walked the deck till the morning, thinking over the events of the day, and wondering what the Dominie would say when he came to his senses. At four o’clock, as agreed, I roused Tom out, and turned into his bed, and was soon as fast asleep as old Tom and the Dominie, whose responsive snores had rung in my ears during the whole time that I had walked the deck.
Chapter Fourteen
Cold water and repentance—the two Toms almost moral, and myself full of wise reflections—The chapter, being full of grave saws, is luckily very short; and though a very sensible one, I would not advise it to be skipped
About half-past eight the next morning, I was called up by Tom to assist in getting the lighter under weigh. When on deck I found old Tom as fresh as if he had not drunk a drop the night before, very busily stumping about the windlass, with which we hove up first the anchor, and then the mast. “Well, Jacob, my boy, had sleep enough? Not too much, I dare say; but a bout like last night don’t come often, Jacob—only once in a way; now, and then I do believe it’s good for my health. It’s a great comfort to me, my lad, to have you on board with me, because as you never drinks, I may now indulge a little oftener. As for Tom, I can’t trust him—too much like his father—had nobody to trust to for the look-out, except the dog Tommy, till you came with us. I can trust Tommy as far as keeping off the river sharks; he’ll never let them take a rope-yarn off the deck, night or day; but a dog’s but a dog, after all. Now we’re brought to; so clap on, my boy, and let’s heave up with a will.”
“How’s the old gentleman, father?” said Tom, as we paused a moment from our labour at the windlass.
“Oh! he’s got a good deal more to sleep off yet. There he lies, flat on his back, blowing as hard as a grampus. Better leave him as long as we can. We’ll rouse him as soon as we turn Greenwich reach. Tom, didn’t you think his nose loomed devilish large yesterday?”
“Never seed such a devil of a cutwater in my life, father.”
“Well, then, you’ll see a larger when he gets up, for it’s swelled bigger than the brandy bottle. Heave and haul! Now bring to the fall, and up with the mast, boys, while I goes aft and takes the helm.”
Old Tom went aft. During the night the wind had veered to the north, and the frost had set in sharp, the rime covered the deck of the barge, and here and there floating ice was to be seen coming down with the tide. The banks of the river and fields adjacent were white with hoar frost, and would have presented but a cheerless aspect, had not the sun shone out clear and bright. Tom went aft to light the fire, while I coiled away and made all snug forward. Old Tom as usual carolled forth—
“Oh! for a soft and gentle wind,
I heard a fair one cry
But give to me the roaring breeze,
And white waves beating high,
And white waves beating high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our own,
And merry men are we.”
“A nice morning this for cooling a hot head, that’s sartain. Tommy, you rascal, you’re like a court lady, with her velvet gownd, covered all over with diamonds,” continued old Tom, looking at the Newfoundland dog, whose glossy black hair was besprinkled with little icicles, which glittered in the sun.
“You and Jacob were the only sensible ones of the party last night, for you both were sober.”
“So was I, father. I was as sober as a judge,” observed Tom, who was blowing up the fire.
“May be, Tom, as a judge a’ter dinner; but a judge on the bench be one thing, and a judge over a bottle be another, and not bad judges in that way either. At all events, if you warn’t sewed up, it wasn’t your fault.”
“And I suppose,” replied Tom, “it was only your misfortune that you were.”
“No, I don’t say that; but still, when I look at the dog, who’s but a beast by nature, and thinks of myself, who wasn’t meant to be a beast, why, I blushes, that’s all.”
“Jacob, look at father—now, does he blush?” cried Tom.
“I can’t say that I perceive it,” replied I, smiling.
“Well, then, if I don’t it’s the fault of my having no legs. I’m sure when they were knocked off I lost half the blood in my body, and that’s the reason, I suppose. At all events, I meant to blush, so we’ll take the will for the deed.”
“But do you mean to keep sober in future, father?” said Tom.
“Never do you mind that—mind your own business, Mr Tom. At all events, I sha’n’t get tipsy till next time, and that’s all I can say with safety, ’cause, d’ye see, I knows my failing. Jacob, did you ever see that old gentleman sail too close to the wind before?”
“I never did—I do not think that he was ever tipsy before last night.”
“Then I pities him—his headache, and his repentance. Moreover, there be his nose and the swallow-tail of his coat to make him unhappy. We shall be down abreast of the Hospital in half-an-hour. Suppose you go and give him a shake, Jacob. Not you, Tom; I won’t trust you—you’ll be doing him a mischief; you haven’t got no fellow-feeling, not even for dumb brutes.”
“I’ll thank you not to take away my character that way, father,” replied Tom. “Didn’t I put you to bed last night when you were speechless?”
“Suppose you did—what then?”
“Why, then, I had a feeling for a dumb brute. I only say that, father, for the joke of it, you know,” continued Tom, going up to his father and patting his rough cheek.
“I know that, my boy; you never were unkind, that’s sartain; but you must have your joke—
“Merry thoughts are link’d with laughter,
Why should we bury them?
Sighs and tears may come hereafter,
No need to hurry them.
They who through a spying-glass,
View the minutes as they pass,
Make the sun a gloomy mass,
But the fault’s their own, Tom.”
In the meantime I was vainly attempting to rouse the Dominie. After many fruitless attempts, I put a large quantity off snuff on his upper lip, and then blew it up his nose. But, merciful powers! what a nose it had become—larger than the largest pear that I ever saw in my life. The whole weight of old Tom had fallen on it, and instead of being crushed by the blow, it appeared as if, on the contrary, it had swelled up, indignant at the injury and affront which it had received. The skin was as tight as the parchment of a drum, and shining as if it had been oiled, while the colour was a bright purple. Verily, it was the Dominie’s nose in a rage.
The snuff had the effect of partially awakening him from his lethargy. “Six o’clock—did you say, Mrs Bately? Are the boys washed—and in the schoolroom? I will rise speedily—yet I am overcome with much heaviness. Delapsus somnus ab—” and the Dominie snored again. I renewed my attempts, and gradually succeeded. The Dominie opened his eyes, stared at the deck and carlines above him, then at the cupboard by his side; lastly, he looked at and recognised me.
“Eheu, Jacobe!—where am I? And what is that which presses upon my brain? What is it so loadeth my cerebellum, even as if it were lead? My memory—where is it? Let me recall my scattered senses.” Here the Dominie was silent for some time. “Ah me! yea, and verily, I do recollect—with pain of head and more pain of heart—that which I would fain forget, which is, that I did forget myself; and indeed have forgotten all that passed the latter portion of the night. Friend Dux hath proved no friend, but hath led me into the wrong path: and as or the potation called Grog—Eheu, Jacobe! how have I fallen—fallen in my own opinion—fallen in thine—how can I look thee in the face! O, Jacob! what must thou think of him who hath hitherto been thy preceptor and thy guide!” Here the Dominie fell back on the pillow, and turned away his head.
“It is not your fault, sir,” replied I, to comfort him; “you were not aware of what you were drinking—you did not know that the liquor was so strong. Old Tom deceived you.”
“Nay, Jacob, I cannot lay that flattering unction to my wounded heart. I ought to have known, nay, now I recall to mind, that thou wouldst have warned me—even to the pulling off of the tail of my coat—yet I heeded thee not, and I am humbled—even I, the master over seventy boys!”
“Nay, sir, it was not I who pulled off the tail of your coat; it was the dog.”
“Jacob, I have heard of the wonderful sagacity of the canine species, yet could not I ever have believed that a dumb brute would have perceived my folly, and warned me from intoxication. Mirabile dictu! Tell me, Jacob, thou who hast profited by these lessons which thy master could give—although he could not follow up his precept by example—tell me, what did take place? Let me know the full extent of my backsliding.”
“You fell asleep, sir, and we put you to bed.”
“Who did me that office, Jacob?”
“Young Tom and I, sir; as for old Tom, he was not in a state to help anybody.”
“I am humbled, Jacob—”
“Nonsense, old gentleman; why make a fuss about nothing?” said old Tom, who, overhearing our conversation came into the cabin. “You had a drop too much, that’s all, and what o’ that? It’s a poor heart that never rejoiceth. Rouse a bit, wash your face with old Thames water, and in half-an-hour you’ll be as fresh as a daisy.”
“My head acheth!” exclaimed the Dominie, “even as if there were a ball of lead rolling from one temple to the other; but my punishment is just.”
“That is the punishment of making too free with the bottle, for sartain; but if it is an offence, then it carries its own punishment and that’s quite sufficient. Every man knows that when the heart’s over light at night, that the head’s over heavy in the morning. I have known and proved it a thousand times. Well, what then? I puts the good against the bad, and I takes my punishment like a man.”
“Friend Dux, for so I will still call thee, thou lookest not at the offence in a moral point of vision.”
“What’s moral?” replied old Tom.
“I would point out that intoxication is sinful.”
“Intoxication sinful! I suppose that means that it’s a sin to get drunk. Now, master, it’s my opinion that as God Almighty has given us good liquor, it was for no other purpose than to drink it; and therefore it would be ungrateful to him, and a sin, not to get drunk—that is, with discretion.”
“How canst thou reconcile getting drunk with discretion, good Dux?”
“I mean, master, when there’s work to be done, the work should be done; but when there’s plenty of time, and everything is safe, and all ready for a start the next morning, I can see no possible objection to a jollification. Come, master, rouse out; the lighter’s abreast of the Hospital almost by this time, and we must put you on shore.”
The Dominie, whose clothes were all on, turned out of his bed-place and went with us on deck. Young Tom, who was at the helm, as soon as we made our appearance, wished him a good-morning very respectfully. Indeed, I always observed that Tom, with all his impudence and waggery, had a great deal of consideration and kindness. He had overheard the Dominie’s conversation with me, and would not further wound his feelings with a jest. Old Tom resumed his place at the helm, while his son prepared the breakfast, and I drew a bucket of water for the Dominie to wash his face and hands. Of his nose not a word was said; and the Dominie made no remarks to me on the subject, although I am persuaded it must have been very painful, from the comfort he appeared to derive in bathing it with the freezing water. A bowl of tea was a great solace to him, and he had hardly finished it when the lighter was abreast the Hospital stairs. Tom jumped into the boat and hauled it alongside. I took the other oar, and the Dominie, shaking hands with old Tom, said, “Thou didst mean kindly, and therefore I wish thee a kind farewell, good Dux.”
“God be with you, master,” replied old Tom; “shall we call for you as we come back?”
“Nay, nay,” replied the Dominie, “the travelling by land is more expensive, but less dangerous. I thank thee for thy songs, and—for all thy kindness, good Dux. Are my paraphernalia in the boat, Jacob?”
I replied in the affirmative. The Dominie stepped in, and we pulled him on shore. He landed, took his bundle and umbrella under his arm, shook hands with Tom and then with me, without speaking, and I perceived the tears start in his eyes as he turned and walked away.
“Well, now,” said Tom, looking after the Dominie, “I wish I had been drunk instead of he. He does so take it to heart, poor old gentleman!”
“He has lost his self-esteem, Tom,” replied I. “It should be a warning to you. Come, get your oar to pass.”
“Well, some people he fashioned one way and some another. I’ve been tipsy more than once, and I never lost anything but my reason, and that came back as soon as the grog left my head. I can’t understand that fretting about having had a glass too much. I only frets when I can’t get enough. Well, of all the noses I ever saw, his bests them by chalks; I did so want to laugh at it, but I knew it would pain him.”
“It is very kind of you, Tom, to hold your tongue, and I thank you very much.”
“And yet that old dad of mine swears I’ve got no fellow-feeling, which I consider a very undutiful thing for him to say. What’s the reason, Jacob, that sons be always cleverer than their fathers?”
“I didn’t know that was the case, Tom.”
“But it is so now, if it wasn’t in olden time. The proverb says, ‘Young people think old people to be fools, but old people know young people to be fools.’ We must alter that, for I says, ‘Old people think young people to be fools, but young people know old people to be fools.’”
“Have it your own way, Tom, that will do, rowed of all.”
We tossed in our oars, made the boat fast, and gained the deck, where old Tom still remained at the helm. “Well,” said he, “Jacob, I never thought I should be glad to see the old gentleman clear of the lighter, but I was—devilish glad; he was like a load on my conscience this morning; he was trusted to my charge by Mr Drummond, and I had no right to persuade him to make a fool of himself. But, however, what’s done can’t be helped, as you say sometimes; and it’s no use crying; still it was a pity, for he be, for all the world, like a child. There’s a fancy kind of lass in that wherry, crossing our bows; look at the streamers from her top-gallant.
“Come o’er the sea,
Maiden, to me,
Mine through sunshine, storm, and snows,
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes
Then come o’er the sea,
Maiden, with me.”
“See you hanged first, you underpinned old hulk!” replied the female in the boat, which was then close under our bows.
“Well, that be civil, for certain,” said old Tom, laughing.
