ways ready, master," cried Tom, who sang out again in praise of his
favourite liquor--

"Smiling grog is the sailor's best hope, his sheet anchor,
His compass, his cable, his log,
That gives him a heart which life's cares cannot canker.
Though dangers around him,
Unite to confound him,
He braves them, and tips off his grog.
'Tis grog, only grog,
Is his rudder, his compass, his cable, his log,
The sailor's sheet anchor is grog."

"Verily, thou art an Apollo--or, rather, referring to thy want of legs,
half an Apollo--that is, a _demi_-god. (_Cluck, cluck_.) Sweet is thy
lyre, friend Dux."

"Fair words, master; I'm no liar," cried Tom. "Clap a stopper on your
tongue, or you'll get into disgrace."

"_Ubi lapsus quid feci_," said the Dominie; "I spoke of thy musical
tongue; and, furthermore, I spoke alle-gori-cal-ly."

"I know a man lies with his tongue as well as you do, old chap; but as
for telling a _hell of a_ (something) _lie_, as you states, I say I
never did," rejoined old Tom, who was getting cross in his cups.

I now interfered, as there was every appearance of a fray; and in spite
of young Tom, who wished, as he termed it, to _kick up a shindy_,
prevailed upon them to make friends, which they did, shaking hands for
nearly five minutes. When this was ended, I again entreated the Dominie
not to drink any more, but to go to bed.

"_Amice, Jacobe_," replied the Dominie; "the liquor hath mounted into
thy brain, and thou wouldst rebuke thy master and thy preceptor. Betake
thee to thy couch, and sleep off the effects of thy drink. Verily,
Jacob, thou art _plenus Veteris Bacchi_; or, in plain English, thou art
drunk. Canst thou conjugate, Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou decline,
Jacob? I fear not. Canst thou scan, Jacob? I fear not. Nay, Jacob,
methinks that thou art unsteady in thy gait, and not over clear in thy
vision. Canst thou hear, Jacob? if so, I will give thee an oration
against inebriety, with which thou mayest down on thy pillow. Wilt thou
have it in Latin or in Greek?"

"O, damn your Greek and Latin!" cried old Tom; "keep that for to-morrow.
Sing us a song, my old hearty; or shall I sing you one? Here goes--

"For while the grog goes round,
All sense of danger's drown'd,
We despise it to a man;
We sing a little--"

"Sing a little," bawled the Dominie.

"And laugh a little--"

"Laugh a little," chorused young Tom.

"And work a little--"

"Work a