pulses all through the still watches of the
hot nights with never a sign or look of encouragement; and the staid old
chaplain, who had often assisted the surgeon and helped to fill
cartridges, contributing his own cotton hose for the purpose when those
government stores gave out in battle, and who never smiled, even when
committing a marine to the briny deep; the purser, too, prim and
business-like, looking as if he were a complicated key with an iron
lock of his own strong chest, calculating perpetually the amount of
dollars deposited in his charge, the total of pay to be deducted
therefrom, and never making a mistake save when he overcharged the dead
men for chewing tobacco; and the gay, young, roistering lieutenants, who
never did any thing else but laugh, unmindful of navigation, pipe-clay,
pills, parsons, or pursers, though standing somewhat in awe of the
sharpish, exacting executive officer at the head of the table--all
welcomed, each in his peculiar way, the bright, graceful young blade who
dawned upon them. And not only the mess were cheered by his presence,
but also a troop of clean-dressed sable attendants, whose wide jaws
stretched wider, while the whites of their eyes seemed painfully like
splashes of whitewash on the outside of the galley coppers, as they
nudged one another and yaw-yaw'd quietly away aft there in the region of
the pantry.

"Here, my salt-water pet, come and sit down by me, where all those old
fellows can see you! Steward, a wine-glass for Mr. Darcantel! What? you
won't take a sip of Tinta, and you can only stop a minute because you
are to dine with your uncle the commodore, eh? Well, I'll drink your
uncle's health even if you don't!" said the first lieutenant, as he
familiarly laid his hand on the young fellow's shoulder and drained his
glass.

"Why, Harry, what the deuce did you come down here for?" squeaked out
the purser, as he unscrewed his lips into a pleasant smile. "You've put
an end to that interesting account the master was giving us of how he
lay inside Sandy Hook for six months with a glass to his--"

"Mouth," broke in the surgeon.

"It was Sam Jones the fisherman,
Who was bound to Sandy Hook;
But first upon the Almanac
A solemn oath he took--
That he would catch a load of clams!"

"Silence there, you roarer!" said the surgeon, as he popped a filbert
into the wide mouth of the rollicking fourth lieutenant, which cut his
song short off. "Yes, Harry,