company for sympathy.

"A sacrifice, indeed!" exclaimed Jack Chase, who stood by; "Purser's
Steward, you are Mark Antony over the body of Julius Cesar."

"So I am, so I am," said the auctioneer, without moving a muscle.
"And look!" he exclaimed, suddenly seizing the boot, and
exhibiting it on high, "look, my noble tars, if you have tears,
prepare to shed them now. You all do know this boot. I remember
the first time ever old Bob put it on. 'Twas on a winter evening,
off Cape Horn, between the starboard carronades--that day his
precious grog was stopped. Look! in this place a mouse has
nibbled through; see what a rent some envious rat has made,
through this another filed, and, as he plucked his cursed rasp
away, mark how the bootleg gaped. This was the unkindest cut of
all. But whose are the boots?" suddenly assuming a business-like
air; "yours? yours? yours?"

But not a friend of the lamented Bob stood by.

"Tars of Columbia," said the auctioneer, imperatively, "these
boots must be sold; and if I can't sell them one way, I must sell
them another. How much _a pound_, now, for this superior pair of
old boots? going by _the pound_ now, remember, my gallant sailors!
what shall I have? one cent, do I hear? going now at one cent a
pound--going--going--going--_gone!_"

"Whose are they? Yours, Captain of the Waist? Well, my sweet and
pleasant friend, I will have them weighed out to you when the
auction is over."