e was commanded by Captain Sir Frederick Dashwood, a
lively young baronet, who preferred the active life of a sailor to
indolence and six thousand a year on shore; and who had been rewarded
for his enterprise by promotion and a fast frigate at the early age of
two and twenty. The Ringdove was under a master-commandant of the name
of Lyon, who was just sixty years old, having worked his way up to his
present rank by dint of long and arduous services, owing his last
commission and his command to the accident of having been a first
lieutenant at the battle of Cape St. Vincent. Both these gentlemen
appeared simultaneously on the quarter-deck of the Proserpine, where
they were duly received by the captain and all the assembled officers.

"Good morrow to you, Cuffe," said Dashwood, giving the other the tip of
his fingers, as soon as the ceremonious part of the reception was over;
and casting a glance, half admiring, half critical, at the appearance of
things on deck--"What has Nelson sent us down here about this fine
morning, and--ha!--how long have you had those brass ornaments on
your capstan?"

"They were only put there yesterday, Sir Frederick; a little slush
money did it all."

"Has Nelson seen them? I rather fancy not--they tell me he's as savage
as an Arab about knick-knackery nowadays. What an awkward job that was
yesterday afternoon, by the way, Cuffe!"

"It has been a bad business, and, as an old Agamemnon, I would give a
year's rank that it never had taken place."

"A year's rank!--that's a great deal; a year would set me back, hard
aground alongside of old Lyon, here. I was a lieutenant less than three
years since and couldn't afford half a year. But all you old Agamemnons
think as much of your little Nel. as if he were a pretty girl; isn't it
true, Lyon?"

"I dare say it may be, Sir Frederick," answered Lyon; "and if you had
been the first lieutenant of a two-decker, off Cape St. Vincent, on the
14th February, 1797, you would have thought as much of him too. Here we
were, only fifteen sail in all--that is, of vessels of the line--with
the wind at--"

"Oh, hang your battle, Lyon, I've heard all that at least seventeen
times!"

"Well, if ye haave, Sir Frederick," returned Lyon, who was a Scotchman,
"it'll be just once a year since ye war' born, leaving out the time ye
war' in the nursery. But we've not come here to enlighten Captain Cuffe
in these particulars, so much as in obedience to an order of the
r