and from within came snatches of “Tom Bowling,” “Rule Britannia,” and many songs scarce fit for a child to hear.  Now and anon some one in the street would throw back a taunt to these British sentiments, which went unheeded.  “They be drunk as lords,” said Weld, the butcher’s apprentice, “and when they comes out we’ll hev more than one broken head in this street.”  The songs continuing, he cried again, “Come out, d-n ye.”  Weld had had more than his own portion of rum that day.  Spying me seated on the gate-post opposite, he shouted:  “So ho, Master Carvel, the streets are not for his Majesty’s supporters to-day.”  Other artisans who were there bade him leave me in peace, saying that my grandfather was a good friend of the people.  The matter might have ended there had I been older and wiser, but the excitement of the day had gone to my head like wine.  “I am as stout a patriot as you, Weld,” I shouted back, and flushed at the cheering that followed.  And Weld ran up to me, and though I was a good piece of a lad, swung me lightly onto his shoulder.  “Harkee, Master Richard,” he said, “I can get nothing out of the poltroons by shouting.  Do you go in and say that Weld will fight any mother’s son of them single-handed.”

“For shame, to send a lad into a tavern,” said old Bobbins, who had known my grandfather these many years.  But the desire for a row was so great among the rest that they silenced him.  Weld set me down, and I, nothing loth, ran through the open door.

I had never before been in the “Ship,” nor, indeed, in any tavern save that of Master Dingley, near Carvel Hall.  The “Ship” was a bare place enough, with low black beams and sanded floor, and rough tables and chairs set about.  On that September evening it was stifling hot; and the odours from the men, and the spilled rum and tobacco smoke, well-nigh overpowered me.  The room was filled with a motley gang of sailors, mostly from the bark Mr. Hood had come on, and some from H.M.S.  Hawk, then lying in the harbour.

A strapping man-o’-war’s-man sat near the door, his jacket thrown open and his great chest bared, and when he perceived me he was in the act of proposing a catch; ‘twas “The Great Bell o’ Lincoln,” I believe; and he held a brimming cup of bumbo in his hand.  In his surprise he set it awkwardly down again, thereby spilling full half of it.  “Avast,” says he, with an oath, “what’s this come among us?” and he looked me over with a comical eye.  “A d-d provincial,” he went on scornfully, “but a gentleman’s son, or Jack Ball’s a liar.”  Whereupon his companions rose from their seats and crowded round me.  More than one reeled against me.  And though I was somewhat awed by the strangeness of that dark, ill-smelling room, and by the rough company in which I found myself, I held my ground, and spoke up as strongly as I might.

“Weld, the butcher’s apprentice, bids me say he will fight any man among you single-handed.”

“So ho, my little gamecock, my little schooner with a swivel,” said he who had called himself Jack Ball, “and where can this valiant butcher be found?”