"Cast him loose; but observe, sir, never let me see your face again
while you are in the ship!"

"No, nor any other part of me, if I can help it," replied Jerry,
buttoning up his clothes, and making a precipitate escape by the
cabin-door.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

The air no more was vital now,
But did a mortal poison grow.
The lungs, which used to fan the heart,
Served only now to fire each part;
What should refresh, increased the smart.
And now their very breath,
The chiefest sign of life, became the cause of death!
SPRAT, BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.

The _Aspasia_ did not drop her anchor in Carlisle Bay until three weeks
after the arrival of the frigate which brought up Courtenay and the
prize crew; but she had not been idle, having three valuable prizes,
which she had captured in company. Courtenay immediately repaired on
board of his ship, to report to Captain M--- the circumstances which had
occurred connected with the loss of his five men. He was too honourable
to attempt to disguise or palliate the facts: on the contrary, he laid
all the blame upon himself; and enhanced the merits of the two
midshipmen. Captain M---, who admired his ingenuous confession,
contented himself with observing that he trusted it would be a caution
to him during his future career in the service. To Seymour and Jerry he
said nothing, as he was afraid that the latter would presume upon
commendation; but he treasured up their conduct in his memory, and
determined to lose no opportunity that might offer to reward them.
Courtenay descended to the gun-room, where he was warmly greeted by his
messmates, who crowded round him to listen to his detail of the attempt
to recapture.

"Well," observed Price, "it appears we have had a narrow chance of
losing a messmate."

"Narrow chance lose two, sar," replied Billy Pitts; "you forgit, sar, I
on board schooner!"

"Oh, Billy, are you there? How does the dictionary come on?"

"Come on well, sar; I make a _corundum_ on Massa Doctor, when on board
schooner."

"Made a what?--a corundum! What can that be?"

"It ought to be something devilish hard," observed Courtenay.

"Yes, sar, debblish hard find out. Now, sar,--Why Massa Macallan like a
general?"

"I'm sure I can't tell. We give it up, Billy."

"Then, sar, I tell you. Because he _'feelossifer_."

"Bravo, Billy!--Why, you'll write a book soon. By the bye, Macallan, I
must not forget to thank you for the loan of th