“I say what, Bill,” remarked one, “’An honest man’s the noblest work of God,’ somebody says, and that’s our captain, every inch, from stem to stern, as honest as Quaker Prim, of Gotham.”

“Ay, ay, Jack,” said another; “and did you hear how that same Prim tried to induce Captain Marlin to deprive us of our right?”

“Grog, you mean?”

“Ay, ay.”

“No; but how was it?”

“Arrah, the dirty spalpeen he was, if he was afther a trying for to do that-the divil-”

“Will Mr. McFusee wait?  By the way, Jack, he, Prim, got him by the button, and began to pour into his ears a long tirade against a man’s enjoying himself, and, by the aid of thee, thy, and thou, half convinced the old fellow that he must give up all, and live on ice-water and ship-bread.”

“Did?”

“Ay, ay, you know Captain Marlin.  He always looks at both sides, then balances both, as it were, on the point of a needle, and decides, as Squire Saltfish used to say, ’cording to law and evidence.”

“By the powers, he’s a man, ivery inch, from the crown of his hat to the soles of his shoes, he is.”

“Mr. McFusee, will you keep still?” said Mr. Boyden, the narrator.  Mr. McFusee signified that he would.

“Well, he balanced this question, and the evidence against flew up as ’t were a feather; but down went the evidence for, and he concluded to deal every man his grog in due season.”

“That’s the captain, all over,” remarked Jack.

As we before said, their labors the day previous were great, and, as a dead calm had set in, and the vessel did not even float lazily along, but remained almost motionless,—­not like a thing of life, but like a thing lifeless,—­the captain ordered the crew each a can of liquor, and now they sat, each with his measure of grog, relating stories of the past, and surmises of the future.

“I tell you what,” said Jack Paragon, “these temperance folks are the most foolish set of reformers myself in particular, and the United States, Texas, and the Gulf of Mexico, in general, ever saw.”

“Even so,” remarked Mr. Boyden, “but they do some good.  ’Give the devil his due,’ is an old saw, but none the less true for that.  There’s Peter Porper, once a regular soaker, always said his ’plaints were roomatic,—­rum-attic, I reckon, however, for he used to live up twelve pairs of stairs,—­he and the man in the moon were next-door neighbors; they used to smoke together, and the jolly times they passed were never recorded, for there were no newspapers in those dark ages, and the people were as ignorant as crows.  Well, one of these temperance folks got hold of him, and the next I saw of him he was the pet of the nation; loved by the men, caressed by the women-silver pitchers given him by the former, and broadcloth cloaks by the latter.”

“No selfish motives in keeping temperate!” said Jack Rowlin, ironically.

“Can’t say; but liquor never did me harm.  When I find it does, I will leave off.”