“Steward,” said Captain Oughton, “why the devil do you give us so many fowls for dinner? the stock will never last out the voyage:  two roast fowls, two boiled fowls, curried fowl, and chicken pie!  What can you be thinking of?”

“I spoke to the poulterer on the subject, sir; he constantly brings me down fowls, and he tells me that they kill each other fighting.”

“Fighting! never heard of fowls fighting in a coop before.  They must be all game fowls.”

“That they are, most of them,” said Mr Petres; “I have often seen them fighting when I have been on the poop.”

“So have I,” continued Ansell; “I have seen worse cocks in the pit.”

“Well, it’s very odd; I never lost a cock in this way in all my voyages.  Send the poulterer here; I must inquire about it.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the steward; and he quitted the cabin.

With the exception of the major, who knew nothing of the circumstances, the officers thought it advisable to decamp, that they might not be present when the denouement took place.  The poulterer made his appearance, was interrogated, and obliged, in his own defence, to criminate the parties, corroborating his assertions by producing a pair of spurs found upon a cock which had been killed, and thrown behind the coop in a hurry, at the appearance of Captain Oughton on deck.

“I am sorry that my officers should have taken such a liberty,” observed the major, gravely.

“Oh, never mind, major, only allow me to be even with them; I shouldn’t have minded if I had seen the fighting.  I think you said that you would like to exercise your men a little this afternoon?”

“I did; that is, if not inconvenient.”

“Not in the least, major; the quarter-deck is at your service.  I presume you do not superintend yourself.”

“Yes, I generally do.”

“Well, don’t this time; but let all the officers; and then I shall be able to play them a little trick that will make us all square.”

Major Clavering consented.  The officers were ordered up to drill their men.  Captain Majoribanks and Mr Irving had one party at the platoon exercise.

“Third man, your hand a little higher on the barrel of your musket.  As you were; support—­the word support is only a caution—­arms,—­too—­too.”

“Two and two makes four,” observed one of the seamen.

Lieutenant Winterbottom had another party on the leeside of the quarter-deck.  “Ram down—­cartridge—­No. 12, slope your musket a little more—­too—­too—­only two taps at the bottom of the barrel.  Return—­ramrods.  No. 4, why don’t you draw up the heel of your right leg level with the other?  Recollect now, when you shoulder arms, to throw your muskets up smartly.—­Shoulder—­as you were—­the word shoulder is only a caution; shoulder—­arms.  Dress up a little, No. 8, and don’t stick your stomach out in that way.”

Mr Ansell and Mr Petres had two fatigue parties on the poop, without muskets.  “To the right—­face—­to the right face.  To the right—­face—­to the right—­face.”