bbed by the oldsters if he did,--I fear that his life was far
from a pleasant one. When we had completed our refit, and had stowed
away a supply of provisions, despatches were sent on board, and we were
ordered to proceed to Tripoli and Tunis. We made a very quick passage
to Tripoli, which is the capital of the most easterly of the Barbary
States. It boasts of a castle and port, and has a large harbour,
defended by a moat and batteries, capable of containing a considerable
fleet of merchantmen. We remained there a very short time, so I do not
remember much about the place, nor exactly for what purpose we went
there. There is another town of the same name in Syria, and they are
often confounded. Leaving Tripoli, we made sail for Tunis. It was on
this trip, if I remember rightly, that a circumstance occurred, which
for some time appeared wrapped in mystery. The adventure of the
rib-bone, in which Dicky Sharpe played so prominent a part, will be
remembered. Since that time, Ichabod Chissel, the carpenter, had led
his unfortunate boy, Bobby Smudge, a very dog's life. I fully believe,
however, that Master Smudge richly deserved every rope's-ending he got.
He was always dirty: he loved dirt, and nothing could keep him clean.
His honesty also was doubtful. While in Malta harbour, some of our
plate had disappeared. Our boy accused Bobby of taking it, though he
denied this, and, to our surprise, confessed that he knew where it was.

"Why, do you see, sir," he said to Stallman, who sat as judge on his
trial, "it somehow or other got into my tub of hot water, and I never
knowed it; and when I went to heave the water overboard, I then see'd
the glitter of it in the sea, as it sunk to the bottom."

The defence was ingenious, and as there was no witness to prove to the
contrary, Bobby escaped punishment on that occasion; though, as he had
been seen in deep confabulation with an ill-looking Jew a short time
afterwards, suspicion went much against him. From bad, things grew to
worse with Bobby Smudge. Not a day passed, scarcely an hour, that he
did not taste the flavour of a rope's-end--most frequently bestowed by
his master, the carpenter.

"You will be the death of me, I know you will, Master Chissel," he
groaned out one day, when his castigator was even severer than usual.
"I'll go and drown myself, that I will, if this goes on much longer--
you'll see if I don't. I won't stand it, that I won't;" and he
blubbered as