le over which he presided as caterer, sat
Tony Noakes, an old mate, whose grog-blossomed nose and bloodshot eyes
told of many a past debauch.

"Here's to my own true love, Sally Pounce," he shouted in a husky voice,
lifting to his lips a stiff glass of grog, which was eyed wistfully by
Tilly Blake, a young midshipman, from whose share of rum he had
abstracted its contents.

"Mrs Noakes that is to be," cried out Tilly in a sharp tone. "But I
say, she'll not stand having her grog drunk up."

"That remark smells of mutiny, youngster," exclaimed Noakes, with a
fierce glance towards the audacious midshipman.

"By the piper, but it's true, though," put in Paddy O'Grady, who had
also been deprived of the larger portion of his grog.

Most of the youngsters, on finding others inclined to stand up for their
rights, made common cause with Blake and O'Grady. Enraged at this,
Noakes threatened the malcontents with condign punishment.

"Yes, down with all mutiny and the rights of man or midshipmen,"
exclaimed in a somewhat sarcastic tone a good-looking youth, who himself
wore the uniform of a midshipman.

"Well said, Devereux. We must support the rights and dignity of the
oldsters, or the service will soon go to ruin," cried the old mate,
whose voice grew thicker as he emptied glass after glass of his
favourite liquor. "You show your sense, Devereux, and deserve your
supper, but--there's no beef on the table. Here boy--boy Gerrard--bring
the beef; be smart now--bring the beef. Don't stand staring there as if
you saw a ghost."

The boy thus summoned was a fine lad of about fourteen, his shirt collar
thrown back showing his neck, which supported a well-formed head, with a
countenance intelligent and pleasant, but at that moment very pale, with
an expression denoting unhappiness, and a feeling of dislike to, or
dread of, those on whom he was waiting. A midshipmen's boy has seldom a
pleasant time of it under any circumstances. Boy Gerrard, as he was
called, did his best, though often unsuccessfully, to please his
numerous masters.

"Why do you stand there, staring like a stuffed pig?" exclaimed
Devereux, who was near the door. "It is the beef, not your calf's head
we want. Away now, be smart about it."

The sally produced a hoarse laugh from all those sufficiently sober to
understand a joke.

"The beef, sir; what beef?" asked boy Gerrard in a tone of alarm.

"Our beef," shouted old Noakes, heaving a biscuit at th