strong water
was producing its effect. "He means 'poor boy.' I say, Grossbeck, does
he think I'm--I'm sizzled? I feel so myself. Come, let's go."

They rose, and moved in a serpentine path to the door.

"_Pour boire?_" repeated the _garcon_, following them.

"That's what's the matter. I'm a poor boy! I was a fool to drink more'n
one nip of your camphene," hickuped Lynch. "Here, old fellow, here's a
half of one of those francs. Don't say nothing more about it. I'm a poor
boy, but I shall get over it."

The young tippler handed the half-franc piece to the waiter, who bowed,
scraped, flourished his napkin, and fled.

CHAPTER XIII.

THREE CHEERS FOR THE KING OF BELGIUM.

"I say, Grossbeck, you and I are two bigger fools than Napoleon was when
he went to Russia," said Lynch, as they reached the street again.

"That's so. 'There was a sound of revelry by night, and Belgium's
capital'--got considerably mixed," replied Grossbeck, whose head was not
quite so full as his companion's.

"What shall we do, my boy?" stammered Lynch. "That wine was nothing
short of camphene. We shall be seen by the captain, and we shall both be
sent to keep company with poor McDougal. We've lost our mess on the
Josephine."

"Stiffen up, Lynch. Don't give way to it. What sort of a sailor are you,
that can't bear two thimblefuls of wine?"

"That wine was camphene, I tell you. It feels just like a whole bunch of
friction matches touched off at once in my stomach--that's so. I'm a
poor boy and no mistake, Grossbeck."

Lynch suddenly stopped, and grasped his companion by the arm.

"What's the matter," demanded Grossbeck.

"It's no use for me to drink wine. The _eau de vie_ carries too many
guns for me. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to get out of
this scrape."

"So am I; but come along, or we shall be late."

"I'm going to join the temperance society, and never drink any more
wine--not another drop of _eau de vie_ for me."

Lynch evidently felt that he had got into trouble for nothing; that the
satisfaction of drinking the firewater was very unsatisfactory in the
end. He had sense enough left to see that disgrace and degradation
awaited him, and he dreaded the prompt action of Captain Kendall, as
exhibited in the case of McDougal. While still suffering from the
effects of the tipple, he resolved to drink no more; but pledges made in
the heat of intoxication are not the most hopeful ones.

The boosy youngsters