I couldn’t make out her name at first; for, when she gave it in answer to my inquiry, it sounded like Beltot, which didn’t sound right.  But, when we became better acquainted—­which was while Charker and I were drinking sugar-cane sangaree, which she made in a most excellent manner—­I found that her Christian name was Isabella, which they shortened into Bell, and that the name of the deceased non-commissioned officer was Tott.  Being the kind of neat little woman it was natural to make a toy of—­I never saw a woman so like a toy in my life—­she had got the plaything name of Belltott.  In short, she had no other name on the island.  Even Mr. Commissioner Pordage (and he was a grave one!) formally addressed her as Mrs. Belltott, but, I shall come to Mr. Commissioner Pordage presently.

The name of the captain of the sloop was Captain Maryon, and therefore it was no news to hear from Mrs. Belltott, that his sister, the beautiful unmarried young English lady, was Miss Maryon.  The novelty was, that her christian-name was Marion too.  Marion Maryon.  Many a time I have run off those two names in my thoughts, like a bit of verse.  Oh many, and many, and many a time!

We saw out all the drink that was produced, like good men and true, and then took our leaves, and went down to the beach.  The weather was beautiful; the wind steady, low, and gentle; the island, a picture; the sea, a picture; the sky, a picture.  In that country there are two rainy seasons in the year.  One sets in at about our English Midsummer; the other, about a fortnight after our English Michaelmas.  It was the beginning of August at that time; the first of these rainy seasons was well over; and everything was in its most beautiful growth, and had its loveliest look upon it.

“They enjoy themselves here,” I says to Charker, turning surly again.  “This is better than private-soldiering.”

We had come down to the beach, to be friendly with the boat’s-crew who were camped and hutted there; and we were approaching towards their quarters over the sand, when Christian George King comes up from the landing-place at a wolf’s-trot, crying, “Yup, So-Jeer!”—­which was that Sambo Pilot’s barbarous way of saying, Hallo, Soldier!  I have stated myself to be a man of no learning, and, if I entertain prejudices, I hope allowance may be made.  I will now confess to one.  It may be a right one or it may be a wrong one; but, I never did like Natives, except in the form of oysters.

So, when Christian George King, who was individually unpleasant to me besides, comes a trotting along the sand, clucking, “Yup, So-Jeer!” I had a thundering good mind to let fly at him with my right.  I certainly should have done it, but that it would have exposed me to reprimand.

“Yup, So-Jeer!” says he.  “Bad job.”

“What do you mean?” says I.

“Yup, So-Jeer!” says he, “Ship Leakee.”

“Ship leaky?” says I.