ather, giving her a
great slap on her back. 'Well! set thee down to thy victual, and be
quiet wi' thee, for I want to finish my tale to Philip. But,
perhaps, I've telled it yo' afore?' said he, turning round to
question Hepburn.

Hepburn could not say that he had not heard it, for he piqued
himself on his truthfulness. But instead of frankly and directly
owning this, he tried to frame a formal little speech, which would
soothe Daniel's mortified vanity; and, of course, it had the
directly opposite effect. Daniel resented being treated like a
child, and yet turned his back on Philip with all the wilfulness of
one. Sylvia did not care for her cousin, but hated the discomfort of
having her father displeased; so she took up her tale of adventure,
and told her father and mother of her afternoon's proceedings.
Daniel pretended not to listen at first, and made ostentatious
noises with his spoon and glass; but by-and-by he got quite warm and
excited about the doings of the press-gang, and scolded both Philip
and Sylvia for not having learnt more particulars as to what was the
termination of the riot.

'I've been whaling mysel',' said he; 'and I've heerd tell as whalers
wear knives, and I'd ha' gi'en t' gang a taste o' my whittle, if I'd
been cotched up just as I'd set my foot a-shore.'

'I don't know,' said Philip; 'we're at war wi' the French, and we
shouldn't like to be beaten; and yet if our numbers are not equal to
theirs, we stand a strong chance of it.'

'Not a bit on't--so be d--d!' said Daniel Robson, bringing down his
fist with such violence on the round deal table, that the glasses
and earthenware shook again. 'Yo'd not strike a child or a woman,
for sure! yet it 'ud be like it, if we did na' give the Frenchies
some 'vantages--if we took 'em wi' equal numbers. It's not fair
play, and that's one place where t' shoe pinches. It's not fair play
two ways. It's not fair play to cotch up men as has no call for
fightin' at another man's biddin', though they've no objection to
fight a bit on their own account and who are just landed, all keen
after bread i'stead o' biscuit, and flesh-meat i'stead o' junk, and
beds i'stead o' hammocks. (I make naught o' t' sentiment side, for I
were niver gi'en up to such carnal-mindedness and poesies.) It's
noane fair to cotch 'em up and put 'em in a stifling hole, all lined
with metal for fear they should whittle their way out, and send 'em
off to sea for years an' years to come. And a