m, great trees bending over
them, soft lamps lighting them, fire-flies sparkling in among them,
bright flowers and birds brought into existence to please their eyes,
delicious drinks to be had for the pouring out, delicious fruits to be
got for the picking, and every one dancing and murmuring happily in the
scented air, with the sea breaking low on the reef for a pleasant chorus.

"Fine gentlemen and fine ladies, Harry?" I says to Charker. "Yes, I
think so! Dolls! Dolls! Not the sort of stuff for wear, that comes of
poor private soldiering in the Royal Marines!"

However, I could not gainsay that they were very hospitable people, and
that they treated us uncommonly well. Every man of us was at the
entertainment, and Mrs. Belltott had more partners than she could dance
with: though she danced all night, too. As to Jack (whether of the
Christopher Columbus, or of the Pirate pursuit party, it made no
difference), he danced with his brother Jack, danced with himself, danced
with the moon, the stars, the trees, the prospect, anything. I didn't
greatly take to the chief-officer of that party, with his bright eyes,
brown face, and easy figure. I didn't much like his way when he first
happened to come where we were, with Miss Maryon on his arm. "O, Captain
Carton," she says, "here are two friends of mine!" He says, "Indeed?
These two Marines?"--meaning Charker and self. "Yes," says she, "I
showed these two friends of mine when they first came, all the wonders of
Silver-Store." He gave us a laughing look, and says he, "You are in
luck, men. I would be disrated and go before the mast to-morrow, to be
shown the way upward again by such a guide. You are in luck, men." When
we had saluted, and he and the lady had waltzed away, I said, "You are a
pretty follow, too, to talk of luck. You may go to the Devil!"

Mr. Commissioner Pordage and Mrs. Commissioner, showed among the company
on that occasion like the King and Queen of a much Greater Britain than
Great Britain. Only two other circumstances in that jovial night made
much separate impression on me. One was this. A man in our draft of
marines, named Tom Packer, a wild unsteady young fellow, but the son of a
respectable shipwright in Portsmouth Yard, and a good scholar who had
been well brought up, comes to me after a spell of dancing, and takes me
aside by the elbow, and says, swearing angrily:

"Gill Davis, I hope I may not be the death of Sergeant Drooce one