"It grieveth me to hear thee say so, for he lacketh not talent, but instruction; and the Dux, he pleaseth me mightily--a second Palinurus.

Yet how that a man could venture to embark upon an element, to struggle through the horrors of which must occasionally demand the utmost exertion of every limb, with the want of the two most necessary for his safety, is to me quite incomprehensible."

"He can keep his legs, sir."

"Nay, Jacob; how can he _keep_ what are _already gone_? Even thou speakest strangely upon the water. I see the dangers that surround us, Jacob, yet I am calm: I feel that I have not lived a wicked life--'_Integer vitae, scelerisque purus_,' as Horace truly saith, may venture, even as I have done, upon the broad expanse of water. What is it that the boy is providing for us? It hath an inviting smell."

"Lobscouse, master," replied old Tom, "and not bad lining either."

"I recollect no such word--_unde derivatur_, friend?"

"What's that, master?" inquired old Tom.

"It's Latin for lobscouse, depend upon it, father," cried Tom, who was stirring up the savoury mess with a large wooden spoon. "He be a _deadly_ lively old gentleman, with his dead language. Dinner's all ready. Are we to let go the anchor, or pipe to dinner first?"

"We may as well anchor, boys. We have not a quarter of an hour's more ebb, and the wind is heading us."

Tom and I went forward, brailed up the mainsail, cleared away, and let go the anchor. The lighter swung round rapidly to the stream. The Dominie, who had been in a fit of musing, with his eyes cast upon the forests of masts which we had pa.s.sed below London Bridge, and which were now some way astern of us, of a sudden exclaimed, in a loud voice, "_Parce precor! Periculosum est_!"

The lighter, swinging short round to her anchor, had surprised the Dominie with the rapid motion of the panorama, and he thought we had fallen in with one of the whirlpools mentioned by Tom. "What has happened, good Dux? tell me," cried the Dominie to old Tom, with alarm in his countenance.

"Why, master, I'll tell you after my own fashion," replied old Tom, smiling; and then singing, as he held the Dominie by the b.u.t.ton of his spencer--

"Now to her berth the craft draws nigh, With slacken'd sail, she feels the tide; 'Stand clear the cable!' is the cry-- The anchor's gone, we safely ride.

"And now, master, we'll bail out the lobscouse. We sha'n't weigh anchor again until to-morrow morning; the wind's right in our teeth, and it will blow fresh, I'm sartain. Look how the scud's flying; so now we'll have a jolly time of it, and you shall have your allowance of grog on board before you turn in."

"I have before heard of that potation," replied the Dominie, sitting down on the coaming of the hatchway, "and fain would taste it."

CHAPTER TWELVE.

IS A CHAPTER OF TALES IN A DOUBLE SENSE--THE DOMINIE, FROM THE NATURAL EFFECTS OF HIS SINGLE-HEARTEDNESS, BEGINS TO SEE DOUBLE--A NEW DEFINITION OF PHILOSOPHY, WITH AN EPISODE ON JEALOUSY.

We now took our seats on the deck, round the saucepan, for we did not trouble ourselves with dishes, and the Dominie appeared to enjoy the lobscouse very much. In the course of half-an-hour all was over; that is to say, we had eaten as much as we wished; and the Newfoundland dog, who, during our repast, lay close by young Tom, flapping the deck with his tail, and sniffing the savoury smell of the compound, had just licked all our plates quite clean, and was now finishing with his head in the saucepan; while Tom was busy carrying the crockery into the cabin, and bringing out the bottle and tin pannikins, ready for the promised carouse.

"There, now, master, there's a gla.s.s o' grog for you that would float a marline-spike. See if that don't warm the _c.o.c.kles_ of your old heart."

"Ay," added Tom, "and set all your _muscles_ as taut as weather backstays."

"Master Tom, with your leave, I'll mix your grog for you myself. Hand me back that bottle, you rascal."

"Just as you please, father," replied Tom, handing the bottle; "but recollect, none of your _water bewitched_. Only help me as you love me."

Old Tom mixed a pannikin of grog for Tom, and another for himself. I hardly need say which was the _stiffer_ of the two.

"Well, father, I suppose you think the grog will run short. To be sure, one bottle aren't too much 'mong four of us."

"One bottle, you scamp! there's another in the cupboard."

"Then you must see double already, father."

Old Tom, who was startled at this news, and who imagined that Tom must have gained possession of the other bottle, jumped up and made for the cupboard, to ascertain whether what Tom a.s.serted was correct. This was what Tom wished; he immediately changed pannikins of grog with his father, and remained quiet.

"There _is_ another bottle, Tom," said his father, coming out and taking his seat again. "I knew there was. You young rascal, you don't know how you frightened me!" And old Tom put the pannikin to his lips.

"Drowned the miller, by heavens!" said he, "What could I have been about?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed he, adding more spirit to his mixture.

"I suppose, upon the strength of another bottle in the locker, you are doubling the strength of your grog. Come, father," and Tom held out his pannikin, "do put a little drop in mine--it's seven-water grog, and I'm not on the black-list."

"No, no, Tom; your next shall be stronger. Well, master, how do you like your liquor?"

"Verily," replied the Dominie, "it is a pleasant and seducing liquor.

Lo and behold! I am at the bottom of my utensil."

"Stop till I fill it up again, old gentleman. I see you are one of the right sort. You know what the song says--

"A plague on those musty old lubbers, Who tell us to fast and to think, And patient fall in with life's rubbers, With nothing but _water_ to _drink_!

"Water, indeed! The only use of water I know is to mix your grog with, and float vessels up and down the world. Why was the sea made salt, but to prevent our drinking too much water. Water, indeed!

"A can of good grog, had they swigg'd it, T'would have set them for pleasure agog, And in spite of the rules Of the schools, The old fools Would have all of them swigg'd it, And swore there was nothing like grog."

"I'm exactly of your opinion, father," said Tom, holding out his empty pannikin.

"Always ready for two things, Master Tom--grog and mischief; but, however, you shall have one more _dose_."

"It hath, then, medicinal virtues?" inquired the Dominie.

"Ay, that it has, master--more than all the quacking medicines in the world. It cures grief and melancholy, and prevents spirits from getting low."

"I doubt that, father," cried Tom, holding up the bottle "for the more grog we drink, the more the _spirits become low_."

_Cluck, cluck_, came from the thorax of the Dominie. "Verily, friend Tom, it appeareth, among other virtues, to sharpen the wits. Proceed, friend Dux, in the medicinal virtues of grog."

"Well, master, it cures love when it's not returned, and adds to it when it is. I've heard say it will cure jealousy; but that I've my doubts of. Now I think on it, I will tell you a yarn about a jealous match between a couple of fools. Jacob, aren't your pannikin empty, my boy?"

"Yes," replied I, handing it up to be filled. It was empty, for, not being very fond of it myself, Tom, with my permission, had drunk it as well as his own.

"There, Jacob, is a good dose for you; you aren't always craving after it, like Tom."

"He isn't troubled with low spirits, as I am, father."

"How long has that been your complaint, Tom?" inquired I.

"Ever since I heard how to cure it. Come, father, give us the yarn."

"Well, then, you must mind that an old shipmate o' mine, Ben Leader, had a wife named Poll, a pretty sort of craft in her way--neat in her rigging, swelling-bows, taking sort of figure-head, and devilish well rounded in the counter; altogether, she was a very fancy girl, and all the men were after her. She'd a roguish eye, and liked to be stared at, as most pretty women do, because it flatters their vanities. Now, although she liked to be noticed so far by the other chaps, yet Ben was the only one she ever wished to be handled by; it was 'Paws off, Pompey!' with all the rest. Ben Leader was a good-looking, active, smart chap, and could foot it in a reel, or take a bout at single-stick with the very best o' them; and she was mortal fond of him, and mortal jealous if he talked to any other woman, for the women liked Ben as much as the men liked she. Well, as they returned love for love, so did they return jealousy for jealousy; and the lads and la.s.ses, seeing that, had a pleasure in making them come to a misunderstanding. So every day it became worse and worse between them. Now, I always says that it's a stupid thing to be jealous, _'cause_ if there be _cause_, there be no _cause_ for love and if there be no _cause_, there be no _cause_ for jealousy."