quite in the wind's eye, and I'm afeared we shan't make it to-night."

"A queer craft."

"Werry," replied Tom. "Don't answer the helm at all."

"Any grog on board?" demanded the sailor.

"Not enough to wet the boatswain's whistle; for, da'e see, mate, there's
no room for stowage."

"Shiver my timbers!--no grog!" exclaimed the other; "why--you'll founder.
If you don't splice the main-brace, you'll not make a knot an hour.
Heave to--and let's drink success to the voyage."

"With all my heart, mate, for I'm precious krank with tacking. Larboard,
Tom--larboard."

"Aye, aye--larboard it is."

"Now, run her right into that 'ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let's have
a bowl."

Tom tugged away, and soon "brought up" at the door of a wine-vaults.

"Let go the anchor," exclaimed his messmate--"that's it--coil up."

"Here, mate--here's a picter of his royal majesty"--giving the sailor
alongside a new guinea--"and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as
stiff as a nor'wester, and, let's all drink the King's health--God bless