common sly dogs, gives 'em a glass o' their vile
brandy for good-fellowship by way of, an' that flies to their heads, an'
makes 'em want more--d'ee see? An' so they go on till many of 'em
becomes regular topers--that's where it is, Jacob."

"Why don't the mission smacks sell baccy too?" asked Jacob, stamping his
feet on the slushy deck to warm them, and beating his right hand on the
tiller for the same purpose.

"You're a knowing fellow," returned the admiral, with a short laugh;
"why, that's just what they've bin considerin' about at the Head
Office--leastwise, so I'm told; an' if they manage to supply the fleets
wi' baccy at 1 shilling a pound, which is 6 pence less than the Dutchmen
do, they'll soon knock the _copers_ off the North Sea altogether. But
the worst of it is that _we_ won't git no benefit o' that move till a
mission smack is sent to our own fleet, an' to the half-dozen other
fleets that have got none."

At this point the state of the weather claiming his attention, the
admiral went forward, and left Jacob Jones, who was a new hand in the
fleet, to his meditations.

One of the smacks which drew her trawl that night over the Swarte Bank
not far from the admiral was the _Lively Poll_--repaired, and rendered
as fit for service as ever. Not far from her sailed the _Cherub_, and
the _Cormorant_, and that inappropriately named _Fairy_, the "ironclad."

In the little box of the _Lively Poll_--which out of courtesy we shall
style the cabin--Jim Freeman and David Duffy were playing cards, and
Stephen Lockley was smoking. Joe Stubby was drinking, smoking, and
grumbling at the weather; Hawkson, a new hand shipped in place of Fred
Martin, was looking on. The rest were on deck.

"What's the use o' grumblin', Stub?" said Hawkson, lifting a live coal
with his fingers to light his pipe.

"Don't `Stub' me," said Stubley in an angry tone.

"Would you rather like me to stab you?" asked Hawkson, with a
good-humoured glance, as he puffed at his pipe.

"I'd rather you clapped a stopper on your jaw."

"Ah--so's you might have all the jawin' to yourself?" retorted Hawkson.

Whatever reply Joe Stubley meant to make was interrupted by Jim Freeman
exclaiming with an oath that he had lost again, and would play no more.
He flung down the cards recklessly, and David Duffy gathered them up,
with the twinkling smile of a good-natured victor.

"Come, let's have a yarn," cried Freeman, filling his pipe, with the
intentio