“That’s true, Dennis, I know; but don’t be cross.  They’ll be awfully pleased to see you.”

“And not without reason, I can tell ye!  Didn’t I beard the lion in his den, the captain in his cabin, to beg for the grog?  And talking of beards, of all the fiery——­, upon my soul he’s not safe to be near gunpowder.  Jack, is he Scotch?”

“Yes.”

“They’re bad to blarney, and I did my best, I can tell you, for my own sake as well as for the men.  I’m as shy with strangers as an owl by daylight, and I’ll never get a thank ye out of my throat, unless we’ve the chance of a bit of sociability.  However, at last he called to that nice fellow—­third mate, isn’t he?—­and gave orders for the rum.  ‘Two-water grog, Mr. Johnson,’ says he.  ‘Ah, captain,’ I said, ’don’t be throwing cold water on the entertainment; they got their share of that last night.  It’s only the rum that’s required to complete us now.’  But he’s as deaf to fun as he is to blarney.  Is he good to you, little stowaway?”

“Oh, very,” said I.  “And you should hear what the men tell about other captains.  They all like this one.”

“He has an air of uprightness about him; and so has that brother-in-adversity of yours, more polish to him!  He must be a noble fellow, though.  I can’t get over his volunteering, without the most distant obligation to risk his life for me—­not even a sailor.  And yet he won’t be friendly, do what I will.  As formal as you please—­that’s pride, I suppose—­he’s Scotch too, isn’t he?  Blarney’s no go with him.  Faith, it’s like trying to butter short-bread with the thermometer at zero.  By Jove, there he is ahead of us.  Alister, man!  Not the ghost of a look will he give me.  He’s fine-looking, too, if his hair wasn’t so insanely distracted, and his brow ridged and furrowed deep enough to plant potatoes in.  What in the name of fortune’s he doing to his hands?”

“He’s washing them with a lump of grease,” said I.  “I saw Francis give it him.  It’s to get the tar off.”

“That indeed?  Alister! Alister!  Have ye no eyes in the back of ye?  Here’s Jack and myself.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Alister, stiffly.

“Oh, confound your sir-liness!” muttered Dennis, and added aloud, “Is that pomatum for your hair?”

Alister laughed in spite of himself.

“More like hair-dye, sir,” said he, and rubbing desperately at his fingers, he added, “I can’t get them decent.”

“Ah, let them rest!” said Dennis.  “It’s painting the lily to adorn them.  On ye go; and mind ye keep near to us, and we’ll make a landlubber’s parliament in a corner to ourselves.”