“Well reeled off, Billy,” cried Jemmy Ducks, finishing with a flourish on his fiddle, and a refrain of the air.  I don’t think we shall meet him and his dog at Fidler’s Green—­heh!”

“No,” replied Short, taking his pipe from his lip.

“No, no, Jemmy, a seaman true means one true in heart as well as in knowledge; but, like a blind fiddler, he’ll be led by his dog somewhere else.”

“From vere de dog did come from,” observed Jansen.

The band now struck up again, and played a waltz—­a dance new to our country, but older than the heptarchy.  Jansen, with his pipe in his mouth, took one of the women by the waist, and steered round the room about as leisurely as a capstern heaving up.  Dick Short also took another, made four turns, reeled up against a Dutchman who was doing it with sang froid, and then suddenly left his partner and dropped into his chair.

“I say, Jemmy,” said Obadiah Coble, “why don’t you give a girl a twist round?”

“Because I can’t, Oby; my compasses arn’t long enough to describe a circle.  You and I are better here, old boy.  I, because I’ve very little legs, and you, because you havn’t a leg to stand upon.”

“Very true—­not quite so young as I was forty years ago.  Howsomever I mean this to be my last vessel.  I shall bear up for one of the London dock-yards as a rigger.”

“Yes, that’ll do; only keep clear of the girt-lines, you’re too stiff for that.”

“No, that would not exactly tell; I shall pick my own work, and that’s where I can bring my tarry trousers to an anchor—­mousing the mainstay, or puddening the anchor, with the best of any.  Dick, lend us a bit of ’baccy.”

Short pulled out his box without saying a word.  Coble took a quid, and Short thrust the box again into his pocket.

In the meantime the waltz continued, and being a favourite dance, there were about fifty couples going round and round the room.  Such was the variety in the dress, country, language, and appearance of the parties collected, that you might have imagined it a masquerade.  It was, however, getting late, and Frau Vandersloosh had received the intimation of the people of the police who superintend these resorts, that it was the time for shutting up; so that, although the widow was sorry on her own account to disperse so merry and so thirsty a party as they were now becoming, so soon as the waltz was ended the musicians packed up their instruments and departed.

This was a signal for many, but by no means for all, to depart; for music being over, and the house doors closed, a few who remained, provided they made no disturbance, were not interfered with by the police.  Among those who stayed were the party from the Yungfrau, one or two American, and some Prussian sailors.  Having closed up together,

“Come,” cried Jemmy, “now that we are quiet again, let’s have another song; and who is it to be—­Dick Short?”