chance o' a spree. Daly 'll
pey th' fine, gae yer man a nicht's rope fur a maddenin' drunk, an'
ship 'm on th' New-Yorker i' th' mornin'. There's nae help for't;
that's th' wey they dae things oot here; unless maybe ye'd pey th' fine
yersels?"

This was our opportunity, and Munro asked for a loan till next week.
He explained the state of our purses and the uselessness of applying to
the Captain so early in the week; James was dubious. Munro urged the
case in homely Doric; James, though pleased to hear the old tongue, was
still hesitating when Munro skilfully put a word of the Gaelic here and
there. A master move! James was highly flattered at our thinking he
had the Gaelic (though never a word he knew), and when Munro brought a
torrent of liquid vowels into the appeal, James was undone. The blood
of the Standard Bearer of the Honourable Order of the Scottish Clans
coursed proudly through his veins, and, readjusting his tartan necktie,
he parted with fifteen dollars on account.

Now a difficulty arose. It being a working day, none of us would get
away to attend the Court. We thought of Old Martin, the night
watchman. As he slept soundly during three-fifths of his night watch,
it was no hardship for the old 'shellback' to turn out, but he wasn't
in the best of tempers when we wakened him and asked his assistance.

"Yew boys thinks nuthin' ov roustin' a man out, as 'as bin on watch awl
night." (Martin was stretched out like a jib downhaul, sound asleep on
the galley floor, when we had come aboard on Sunday night). "Thinks
nuthin' at awl ov callin' a man w'en ye ain't got no damn business
to.... W'en Ah was a boy, it was ropesendin' fer scratchin' a match in
fo'cas'le, 'n hell's-hidin' fer speakin' in a Dago's whisper!"--Martin
sullenly stretched out for his pipe, ever his first move on
waking--"Nowadays boys is men an' men 's old.---- W'y"--Martin waved
his little black pipe accusingly--"taint only t' other day w'en that
there Jones lays out 'n th' tawps'l yardarm afore me 'n mittens th'
bloody earin' 's if awl th' sailormen wos dead!" His indignation was
great, his growls long and deep, but at last he consented to do our
errand--"tho' ain't got no use for that damned Welshman meself!"

Arrayed in his pilot cloth suit, with a sailorlike felt hat perched
rakish on his hard old head, old Martin set out with our fifteen
dollars in his pocket, and his instructions, to pay John's fine and
steer clear of the 'c