e commodore, "I know is. His name is Piron.
I had a note from him as soon as the frigate anchored yesterday, and I
shall ask him to dine sociably with me on board this evening. I hope you
will join us."

The grave gentleman said that he had business which would detain him on
shore all night.

The barge swept up to the mole, the oars were thrown up at a wave of the
coxswain's hand, and came into the boat on either side like shutting up
a pair of fans, while the boat-hooks checked her way, and she remained
stationary at the steps of the landing. The awning was canted, the
commodore and his friend got out and mounted the stairway, while the
boat's crew stood up with their hats off. On the mole were four or five
people in light West India rig of brown and white, and broad Guayaquil
sombreros.

"Cleveland!" exclaimed a tall, handsome man, as he seized the
commodore by both hands, "how glad we are to see you! Here is Tom
Stewart, and Paddy Burns, and little Don Stingo, attorneys, factors, and
sugar-boilers, all of us delighted to welcome you back once more to
Jamaica!"

Crowding about the commodore, shaking hands and slapping one another on
the back, standing off a step or two to see the effect of time on each
other's appearance, laughing heartily with many a happy allusion to days
gone by, those old friends and former companions, unmindful of the hot
sun, stood there with their faces lighted up and talking all together.

"And you are a commodore, eh! Cleveland, with a broad pennant and a
squadron? Ah! we have kept the run of you, though. Read all about that
action you were in with the 'President,' and that bloody battle in the
'Essex' and 'Phebe' at Valparaiso, with Porter. And here you are again,
safe and sound, and hearty!"

"And you too, Piron! The same as ever! Not tired of cane-planting yet?
But how is madame?"

"Lovely a girl as ever, Cleveland, but never entirely got over that sad
loss of the little boy, you know. However, she will be overjoyed to see
you. She's been talking of you ever since we saw your appointment to the
station fifteen months ago. Apropos, we have her widowed sister with us,
whose husband was killed at Waterloo, and our little niece who came from
France--all out there at the old place of Escondido, where you must come
and pass a week with us. Nay, man, no excuse! The thing is arranged, and
it would be the death of Stingo, Tom Stewart, and Paddy Burns if you
disappoint us."

"Well, Piron,