s, two or three tea-cups without handles, and the same
number of pewter mugs, served for glasses. Three tallow dips stuck in
bottles gave an uncertain light in the berth. Salt beef and pork with
pease-pudding, cheese with weevilly biscuits, constituted our fare till
we got to Spithead, when we obtained a supply of vegetables, fresh meat,
and soft tack, as loaves are called at sea. The ship's rum, with water
of a yellowish hue, formed our chief beverage; but the fare being what
all hands were accustomed to have, no one, except the assistant-surgeon,
a Welshman, who had lately come to sea, grumbled at it.

I wrote to my uncle to tell him I was safe; for, having said I was
coming by the hooker, as she would not arrive, my family, I conjectured,
might be alarmed at my non-appearance. I also mentioned the loss of
poor Larry, and begged the major to break the news to his family. Their
great grief, I knew, would be that they would not have the opportunity
of waking him. I also wrote to Nettleship to tell him of my adventure,
and enclosed a letter to the captain, begging that in consequence my
leave might be prolonged.

After we had been three days at anchor, the commander, who had been on
shore, told me on his return that he had received orders to proceed at
once to Cork, and that he would land me there. We had a quick passage,
and as soon as we had dropped our anchor in the beautiful bay, Captain
Hartland very kindly sent me up, in a boat under charge of Sinnet, to
Cork.

Having fortunately my money in my pocket when the hooker went down, I
was able to hire a horse through the help of the landlord of the
"Shamrock" hotel, and as I knew the road thoroughly I had no fear about
finding my way. Having parted from my old messmate Sinnet, I started at
dawn the next morning, intending to push on as fast as my steed would
carry me. I had somewhat got over the loss of Larry, but it made me
very sad when I had to answer the questions put to me about him by the
people of the inns where we had before stopped.

"And to think that him and his fiddle are gone to the bottom of the say!
Och ahone! och ahone!" cried Biddy Casey, the fair daughter of the
landlord of the inn, the scene of our encounter with the irate sow.

It was late in the evening when I reached Ballinahone, and as I rode up
the avenue I saw a tall figure pacing slowly in front of the house. It
was my uncle. I threw myself from the saddle, and led my knocked-up