They were the first words he had spoken to the lad, this block-of-granite
little man, across whose knees his father had died at St. Vincent;
and the boy did not find them encouraging.

"Send im victoriush,
Appee and gloriush,
Long to reign o er--i--ush,
Goshave----

"Uncle George!" bawled a bibulous voice. "Row, ye devil, row!--or I'll
split y'up, and chuck y'overboard."

A boat pelted up under the counter of the sloop. The singer rose suddenly,
clutched at a man-rope, and came swinging up the side.

The light of the binnacle-lamp fell upon him.

He was a tall fellow, with bushy black whiskers, a long tallowy nose
that in some old-time battle had been broken, and eyes with a wild
wet gleam in them. Now he sheered up against the bulwark, waving riotously.

"Three cheers for the lirrel _Tremendous_! Ooray! ray! ray!--We're
alf our ship's company short. There's only old Ding-dong left on the
quar'er-deck. I'm drunk as David's sow. And we're off to cur out the
Grand Armee. Ooray! ray! ray!" and he fell hiccoughing away into foolish
laughter.

"Hadn't you better go below?" said a pure treble at his side. "You're
beastly drunk."