know whether to send for a hostler or an animal trainer."

"Perhaps I'd better engage both," says Pinckney. If they'd been handy,
he would have, too; but they wa'n't, so down we sails to the pier,
where the folks was comin' ashore.

First thing Pinckney spies after we has rushed the gangplank is a gent
with a healthy growth of underbrush on his face and a lot of gold on
his sleeves. By the way they got together, I see that they was old
friends.

"I hear you have something on board consigned to me, Captain?" says
Pinckney. "Something in the way of live stock, eh?" and he pokes Cap
in the ribs with his cane.

"Right you are," says Cappie, chucklin' through his whiskers. "And the
liveliest kind of live stock we ever carried, sir."

Pinckney gives me the nudge, as much as to say he'd struck it first
crack, and then he remarks, "Ah! And where are they now?"

"Why," says the Cap, "they were cruising around the promenade deck a
minute ago; but, Lor' bless you, sir! there's no telling where they are
now--up on the bridge, or down in the boiler room. They're a pair of
colts, those two."

"Colts!" says Pinckney, gaspin'. "You mean ponies, don't you?"

"Well, well, ponies or colts, it's all one. They're lively enough for
either, and--Heigho! Here they come, the rascals!"

There's whoop and a scamper, and along the deck rushes a couple of six-
or seven-year old youngsters, that makes a dive for the Cap'n, catches
him around either leg, and almost upsets him. They was twins, and it
didn't need the kilt suits just alike and the hair boxed just the same
to show it, either. They couldn't have been better matched if they'd
been a pair of socks, and the faces of 'em was all grins and mischief.
Say, anyone with a heart in him couldn't help takin' to kids like that,
providin' they didn't take to him first.

"Here you are, sir," says the Cap'n,--"here's your Jack and Jill, and I
wish you luck with them. It'll be a good month before I can get back
discipline aboard; but I'm glad I had the bringing of 'em over. Here
you are, you holy terrors,--here's the Uncle Pinckney you've been
howling for!"

At that they let loose of the Cap, gives a war-whoop in chorus, and
lands on Pinckney with a reg'lar flyin' tackle, both talkin' to once.
Well say, he didn't know whether to holler for help or laugh. He just
stands there and looks foolish, while one of 'em shins up and gets an
overhand holt on his lilac necktie.

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