imes, or
when I get old, so as to be independent of hospitals and retreats, and
all that sort of thing. And what's more to the purpose, Jack, I try to
have a clean conscience--the most comfortable of all; don't you think
so?

JACK. Why yes, Tom, I do think that a clean conscience must be a very
comfortable thing for a man to have. But I can't brag much of mine
now-a-days; it gives me a deal of trouble sometimes.

TOM. Ah, that's bad, Jack--very bad. But come, let me hear something
about you since we parted, some four years or so ago. Where have you
last been, in what craft, etc.? Give me a long yarn: you used to be a
famous hand at spinning long yarns, you know, Jack. Don't you remember
how angry old copper-nosed Grimes used to get when the larboard watch
turned in, and, instead of sleeping, we made you go ahead with the story
you were on, which made him wish us all at Davy Jones' locker? Ha, ha,
ha.

JACK. O yes, Tom, I remember it all very well; but--

TOM. And then, don't you recollect how we used to skylark in the lee
scuppers with those jolly fellows, Buntline and Reeftackle, until the
Luff had to hail, and send a Middy with his _compliments_ to the
_gentlemen_ of the larboard watch, and to say, that if _quite agreeable
to them_, less noise would be desirable? I say, Jack, you seem to have
forgotten all these funny times in the Alert. Cheer up, man; don't be
downhearted. Give me your flipper again; and if you are really in
trouble, you may be sure, that as long as your old messmate Tom
Starboard has a shot in the locker, or a drop of blood in his veins,
he'll stand by Jack Halyard--aye, aye, to the last.

JACK. Thank you, Tom--thank you. You were always an honest fellow, and
meant what you said; so let us steer for the sign of "The Jolly Tar,"
round the corner, and over a bowl of hot flip we'll talk over old times,
and--

TOM. Avast there, Jack--avast, my hearty. None of your hot flip, or cold
flip, or any other kind of flip for me. "The burnt child dreads the
fire," as the old proverb says; and I am the child that was once pretty
well scorched: but now I give it a wide berth. If you will come with me
to my quiet boarding-house, "THE SAILOR'S HOME," I will be very glad to
crack a joke with you; but you won't catch me in any such place as "The
Jolly Tar," I can tell you. I mind what the old Philadelphia Quaker said
to his son, who, as he was once coming out of a house of ill-fame, spied
old Broadbrim heaving