steward lay on the ground and screamed--the boatswain spit
his double teeth and two or three mouthfuls of blood out, and then threw
down his pistols in a rage.

"A pretty business, by God," sputtered he; "he's put my pipe out. How
the devil am I to pipe to dinner when I'm ordered, all my wind 'scaping
through the cheeks?"

In the meantime, the others had gone to the assistance of the purser's
steward, who continued his vociferations. They examined him, and
considered a wound in that part not to be dangerous.

"Hold your confounded bawling," cried the gunner, "or you'll have the
guard down here: you're not hurt."

"Han't hi?" roared the steward. "Oh, let me die, let me die; don't move
me!"

"Nonsense," cried the gunner, "you must get up and walk down to the
boat; if you don't we'll leave you--hold your tongue, confound you. You
won't? then I'll give you something to halloo for."

Whereupon Mr Tallboys commenced cuffing the poor wretch right and left,
who received so many swinging boxes of the ear, that he was soon reduced
to merely pitiful plaints of "Oh, dear!--such inhumanity--I purtest--oh,
dear! must I get up? I can't, indeed."

"I do not think he can move, Mr Tallboys," said Gascoigne; "I should
think the best plan would be to call up two of the men from the
cooperage, and let them take him at once to the hospital."

The gunner went down to the cooperage to call the men. Mr Biggs, who
had bound up his face as if he had a toothache for the bleeding had been
very slight, came up to the purser's steward.

"What the hell are you making such a howling about? Look at me, with
two shot-holes through my figure-head, while you have only got one in
your stern: I wish I could change with you, by heavens, for I could use
my whistle then--now if I attempt to pipe, there will be such a wasteful
expenditure of his Majesty's stores of wind, that I never shall get out
a note. A wicked shot of yours, Mr Easy."

"I really am very sorry," replied Jack, with a polite bow, "and I beg to
offer my best apology."

During this conversation, the purser's steward felt very faint, and
thought he was going to die.

"Oh, dear! oh, dear! what a fool I was; I never was a gentleman--only a
swell: I shall die; I never will pick a pocket again--never--never--God
forgive me!"

"Why, confound the fellow," cried Gascoigne, "so you were a pickpocket,
were you?"

"I never will again," replied the fellow, in a faint voice: "Hi'll