On this she gave a little squeak; then, without a moment’s interval, continued her lecture as if nothing had happened.  She looked down from her perch like a hen from a ladder, and laid down the law to David with seriousness and asperity.

“And just please to remember that they are people a long way above us—­at least above what we are now, since father fell into trouble; so don’t you make too free; and Miss Fountain is the finest of all the fine ladies in the county.”

“Then I am sorry we are going.”

“No, you are not; she is a beautiful girl.”

“That alters the case.”

“No, it does not.  Don’t chatter so, David, interrupting forever, but listen and mind what I say, or I’ll never take you anywhere again.”

“Are you sure you are taking me now?” asked David, dryly.

“Why not, Mr. David?” retorted Eve, from his shoulder.  “Didn’t I hear you tell how you took the Combermere out of harbor, and how you brought her into port; she didn’t take you out and bring you home, eh?”

“Had me there, though.”

“Yes; and, what is more, you are not skipper of the Combermere yet, and never will be; but I am skipper of you.”

“Ashore—­not a doubt of it,” said David, with cool indifference.  He despised terrestrial distinction, courting only such as was marine.

“Then I command you to let me down this instant.  Do you hear, crew!”

“No,” objected David; “if I put you overboard you can’t command the vessel, and ten to one if the craft does not founder for want of seawomanship on the quarterdeck.  However,” added he, in a relenting tone, “wait till we get to that puddle shining on ahead, and then I’ll disembark you.”

“No, David, do let me down, that’s a good soul.  I am tired,” added she, peevishly.

“Tired! of what?”

“Of doing nothing, stupid; there, let me down, dear; won’t you, darling! then take that, love” (a box of the ear).

“Well, I’ve got it,” said David, dryly.

“Keep it, then, till the next.  No, he won’t let me down.  He has got both my hands in one of his paws, and he will carry me every foot of the way now—­I know the obstinate pig.”

“We all have our little characters, Eve.  Well, I have got your wrists, but you have got your tongue, and that is the stronger weapon of the two, you know; and you are on the poop, so give your orders, and the ship shall be worked accordingly; likewise, I will enter all your remarks on good-breeding into my log.”

Here, unluckily, David tapped his forehead to signify that the log in question was a metaphorical one, the log of memory.  Eve had him again directly.  She freed a claw.  “So this is your log, is it?” cried she, tapping it as hard as she could; “well, it does sound like wood of some sort.  Well, then, David, dear—­you wretch, I mean—­promise me not to laugh loud.”

“Well, I will not; it is odds if I laugh at all.  I wish we were to moor alongside mother, instead of running into this strange port.”