popular enough at the
best of times--would gulp down the joke and make the best of it.
He went back to his bench; but on second thoughts not to his work.
'Twould be on the safe side, anyway, to be not at home for an hour or
two, in case the sailors came back to cry quits. Playing the lonely
martyr, too, wasn't much fun with this mischief working inside of him
and swelling his lungs like barm. He took a bite of bread and a sup
of cider, blew out the candle, let himself forth into the street
after a glance to make sure that all was clear, and headed for the
"Fish and Anchor."

He found the bar-room crowded, but not with the usual Regatta Night
throng of all-sorts. The drinkers assembled were either burgesses
like himself or waterside men with protection-papers in their
pockets: for news of the press-gang had run through the town like
wildfire, and the company had given over discussing the race of the
day and taken up with this new subject. Among the protected men his
eye lit on Treleaven the hoveller, husband to Long Eliza, and Caius
Pengelly, husband to Ann, that had pulled bow in the race. He winked
to them mighty cunning. The pair of 'em seemed dreadfully cast down,
and he knew a word to put them in heart again.

"Terrible blow for us, mates, this woman's mutiny!" says he, dropping
into a chair careless-like, pulling out a short pipe, and speaking
high to draw the company's attention.

"Oh, stow it!" says Caius Pengelly, very sour. "We'd found suthin'
else to talk about; and if the women have the laugh of us to-day,
who's responsible, after all? Why, you--_you_, with your darned
silly song about Adam and Eve! If you hadn't provoked your wife,
this here wouldn't ha' happened."

"Indeed?" says the monkey-fellow, crossing his legs and puffing.
"So you've found something better to talk about? What's that, I'd
like to know?"

"Why, there's a press-gang out," says Treleaven. "But there! a fellow
with your shaped legs don't take no interest in press-gangs, I
reckon."

"Ah, to be sure," says the little man--but he winced and uncrossed his
legs all the same, feeling sorry he'd made 'em so conspicuous--"ah,
to be sure, a press-gang! I met 'em; but, as it happens, that's no
change of subject."

"Us don't feel in no mood to stomach your fun to-night, Hancock; and
so I warn 'ee," put in Pengelly, who had been drinking more than
usual and spoke thick. "If you've a meaning up your sleeve, you'd
best shake it ou