"What are you, 'busin' that 'ere garment for?" cried an old
sheet-anchor-man. "Don't you see it's a 'uniform mustering
jacket'--three buttons on one side, and none on t'other?"

"Silence!" again cried the auctioneer. "How much, my sea-
fencibles, for this superior old jacket?"

"Well," said Grummet, "I'll take it for cleaning-rags at one cent."

"Oh, come, give us a bid! say something, Colombians."

"Well, then," said Grummet, all at once bursting into genuine
indignation, "if you want us to say something, then heave that
bunch of old swabs overboard, _say I_, and show us something
worth looking at."

"No one will give me a bid, then? Very good; here, shove it
aside. Let's have something else there."

While this scene was going forward, and my white jacket was thus
being abused, how my heart swelled within me! Thrice was I on the
point of rushing out of my hiding-place, and bearing it off from
derision; but I lingered, still flattering myself that all would
be well, and the jacket find a purchaser at last. But no, alas!
there was no getting rid of it, except by rolling a forty-two-
pound shot in it, and committing it to the deep. But though, in
my desperation, I had once contemplated something of that sort,
yet I had now become unaccountably averse to it, from certain
involuntary superstitious considerations. If I sink my jacket,