tenay look dam blue--no, he not look blue, but he look dam
yellow," replied Billy, showing his white teeth as he grinned.

"But I won't forget, Billy, upon my honour."

"Well, honour quite enough between two gentlemen. I go fetch the
bottle."

Billy soon reappeared with a quart bottle of rum, just as three bells
were struck. "By gad, I rattle the bottle as I take him out--wake Mr
Courtenay--he say, dam black fellow he make everything adrift--cursed
annoying, he say, and go to sleep again."

"Really, gentlemen, I cannot wait any longer," resumed the
master-at-arms; "the lights must be reported or I shall be in disgrace."

"Very true, Byfield; you are only doing your duty. Will you take a
glass of grog?"

"If you please," replied Mr Byfield, taking off his hat, "Your health,
gentlemen."

"Thank you," replied the midshipmen.

"Tank you, SIR," replied also Billy Pitt.

"Well, Billy. What's the last word you read in your dictionary?"

"Last word? Let me see--Oh! commission, sar. You know dat word?"

"Commission! We all know what that is, Billy, and shall be glad to get
it too, by-and-bye."

"Yes, sar; but there are two kind of commission. One you want, obliged
to wait for; one I want, always have at once,--commission as agent,
sar."

"Oh, I understand," replied Bruce; "five per cent on the bottle, eh?"

"Five per cent not make a tiff glass of grog, Massa Bruce."

"Well, then, Billy, you shall have ten per cent," replied the
midshipman, pouring him out a _north-wester_. "Will that do?"

The black had the politeness to drink the health of all the gentlemen of
the berth separately, before he poured the liquor down his throat.
"Massa Bruce, I tink doctor got a little rum in his cabin."

"Go and fetch it, Billy; you shall have it back to-morrow."

"Honour, Mr Bruce."

"Honour, Mr Pitt."

"Ten per cent, Massa Bruce," continued Billy, grinning.

"Ten per cent is the bargain."

"I go see."

Another quart bottle made its appearance; and the agent having received
his commission, made his bow, and returned to his hammock.

"I do--really--think--upon--my--word--that that--black--scoundrel--
would--sell--his--own--mother--for--a--stiff--glass--of--grog," observed
a youngster, of the name of Prose, a cockney, who drawled out his words,
which, "like a wounded snake, dragged their slow length along."

"The lights, gentlemen, if you please," resumed the master-at-arms,
putting his head again into the