"The stern most ship of all, sir," said the man.

"Where is the Commodore?" "About three miles a--head, sir."

"And the Torch, has she rejoined us?"

"No, sir; she has been out of sight these two hours; when last seen she was
in chase of something in the south--east quarter, and carrying all the sail
she could stagger under."

"Very well, very well."

A song from Master Waistbelt, one of the young officers. Before he had
concluded, the mate came down. By this time it was near sun--down.

"Shall we shake a reef out of the main and mizzen--topsails, sir, and set
the mainsail and spanker? The wind has lulled, sir, and there is a strange
sail in the northwest that seems to be dodging us--but she may be one of
the merchantmen after all, sir."

"Never mind, Mr Leechline," said our gallant captain. "Mr Bandalier--a
song if you please."

Now the young soldiers on board happened to be men of the world, and
Bandalier, who did not sing, turned off the request with a good--humoured
laugh, alleging his inability with much suavity; but the old rough Turk of
a tar--bucket chose to fire at this, and sang out--"Oh, if you don't choose
to sing when you are asked, and to sport your damned fine airs"

"Mr Crowfoot"