es, Sir;" and I touched my
hat with due respect, while his two friends bent forward to catch his
words. "Andrew," repeated he, for the third time, "avoid evil
communication, and get thee gone from Blackwall, as fast as your legs can
carry you--for, there's villainous bad company just landed here--wicked
enough to spoil even the immaculate Mr. Cornelius Crobble!"

CHAPTER XI.--The Journey Home.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!"--"Aye, aye-starboard it is!"

I found myself quite in a strange land upon parting with my master and
his friends. It was war-time, and the place was literally swarming with
jack-tars.

Taking to the road, for the footway was quite crowded, I soon reached
Poplar. Here a large mob impeded my progress. They appeared all moved
with extraordinary merriment. I soon distinguished the objects of their
mirth. Two sailors, mounted back to back on a cart-horse, were steering
for Blackwall. A large horse-cloth served them as a substitute for a
saddle, and the merry fellow behind held the reins; he was smoking a
short pipe, while his mate was making an observation with his spy-glass.

"Starboard, Tom, starboard!" cried the one in front.

"Aye, aye-starboard it is!" replied his companion, tugging at the rein.

"Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?" bawled a sailor in the crowd.

"To the port o' Blackwall," replied the steersman. "But we're going
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
him."

"Hooray!