“The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate,
Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us car’d for Kate.”

“A very good song, and very well sung,” says Sailor Ben; “but some of us does care for Kate.  Is this Mr. Shawkspear a seafarm’ man, sir?”

“Not at present,” replied the Captain, with a monstrous twinkle in his eye.

The clock was striking ten when the party broke up.  The Captain walked to the “Mariner’s Home” with his guest, in order to question him regarding his future movements.

“Well, sir,” said he, “I ain’t as young as I was, an’ I don’t cal’ulate to go to sea no more.  I proposes to drop anchor here, an’ hug the land until the old hulk goes to pieces.  I’ve got two or three thousand dollars in the locker, an’ expects to get on uncommon comfortable without askin’ no odds from the Assylum for Decayed Mariners.”

My grandfather indorsed the plan warmly, and Sailor Ben did drop anchor in Rivermouth, where he speedily became one of the institutions of the town.

His first step was to buy a small one-story cottage located at the head of the wharf, within gun-shot of the Nutter House.  To the great amusement of my grandfather, Sailor Ben painted the cottage a light sky-blue, and ran a broad black stripe around it just under the eaves.  In this stripe he painted white port-holes, at regular distances, making his residence look as much like a man-of-war as possible.  With a short flag-staff projecting over the door like a bowsprit, the effect was quite magical.  My description of the exterior of this palatial residence is complete when I add that the proprietor nailed a horseshoe against the front door to keep off the witches—­a very necessary precaution in these latitudes.

The inside of Sailor Ben’s abode was not less striking than the outside.  The cottage contained two rooms; the one opening on the wharf he called his cabin; here he ate and slept.  His few tumblers and a frugal collection of crockery were set in a rack suspended over the table, which had a cleat of wood nailed round the edge to prevent the dishes from sliding off in case of a heavy sea.  Hanging against the walls were three or four highly colored prints of celebrated frigates, and a lithograph picture of a rosy young woman insufficiently clad in the American flag.  This was labelled “Kitty,” though I’m sure it looked no more like her than I did.  A walrus-tooth with an Esquimaux engraved on it, a shark’s jaw, and the blade of a sword-fish were among the enviable decorations of this apartment.  In one corner stood his bunk, or bed, and in the other his well-worn sea-chest, a perfect Pandora’s box of mysteries.  You would have thought yourself in the cabin of a real ship.

The little room aft, separated from the cabin by a sliding door, was the caboose.  It held a cooking-stove, pots, pans, and groceries; also a lot of fishing-lines and coils of tarred twine, which made the place smell like a forecastle, and a delightful smell it is—­to those who fancy it.