He was soon stripped and the shattered bones set, which was no easy matter, the ship pitching and tossing about as she did.  I sat down beside his berth, holding on as well as I could.  The wind howled through the rigging, making the vessel seem like an infernal Eolian harp; the thunder rumbled like an indisposed giant, and to make things more agreeable, a gun broke from its lashings, and had it all its own way for about a quarter of an hour.  Tom groaned most pitiably.  I looked at him, and if I were to live for a thousand years, I shall never forget the expression of his face.  His lips were blue, and—­no matter, I’m not clever at portrait painting:  but imagine an old-fashioned Saracen’s Head—­not the fine handsome fellow they have stuck on Snow Hill, but one of the griffins of 1809—­and you have Tom’s phiz, only it wants touching with all the colours of a painter’s palette.  I was quite frightened, and could only stammer out, “Why T-o-o-m!”

“It’s all up, sir,” says he; “I must go; I feel it.”

“Don’t be foolish,” I replied; “Don’t die till I call the surgeon.”  It was a stupid speech, I acknowledge, but I could not help it at the time.

“No, no; don’t call the surgeon, Mr. Box; he’s done all he can, sir.  But it’s here—­it’s here!” and then he made an effort to thump his heart, or the back of his head, I couldn’t make out which.

I trembled like a jelly.  I had once seen a melodrama, and I recollected that the villain of the piece had used the same action, the same words.

“Mr. Box,” groaned Tom, “I’ve a-a-secret as makes me very uneasy, sir,”

“Indeed, Tom,” I replied; “hadn’t you better confess the mur—­” murder, I was a going to say, but I thought it might not be polite, considering Tom’s situation.

The ruffian, for such he looked then, tried to raise himself, but another lurch of the Bellophron sent him on his back, and myself on my beam-ends.  As soon as I recovered my former position, Tom continued—­

“Mr. Box, dare I trust you, sir? if I could do so, I’m sartin as how I should soon be easier.”

“Of course,” said I, “of course; out with it, and I promise never to betray your confidence.”

“Then come, come here,” gasped the suffering wretch; “give us your hand, sir.”

I instinctively shrunk back with horror!

“Don’t be long, Mr. Box, for every minute makes it worse,” and then his Saracen’s Head changed to a feminine expression, and resembled the Belle Sauvage.

I couldn’t resist the appeal; so placing my hand in his, Tom put it over his shoulder, and, with a ghastly smile, said, “Pull it out, sir!”

“Pull what out?”

“My secret, Mr. Box; it’s hurting on me!”

I thought that he had grown delirious; so, in order to soothe him as much as possible, I forced my hand under his shirt-collar, and what do you think I found?  Why, a PIGTAIL—­his pigtail, which he had contrived to conceal between his shirt and his skin, when the barbarous order of the Admiralty had been put into execution.