“Andrew,” said my worthy patron, “now don’t go and make a beast of yourself, but walk straight home.”

“Andrew,” said Mr. Wallis, imitating his friend’s tone of admonition; “if any body asks you to treat ’em, bolt; if any body offers to treat you, retreat!”

“Andrew,” said Mr. Crobble, who was determined to put in his oar, and row in the same boat as his friends; “Andrew,”—­“Yes, Sir;” and I touched my hat with due respect, while his two friends bent forward to catch his words.  “Andrew,” repeated he, for the third time, “avoid evil communication, and get thee gone from Blackwall, as fast as your legs can carry you—­for, there’s villainous bad company just landed here—­wicked enough to spoil even the immaculate Mr. Cornelius Crobble!”

CHAPTER XI.—­The Journey Home.

“Starboard, Tom, starboard!”—­“Aye, aye-starboard it is!”

I found myself quite in a strange land upon parting with my master and his friends.  It was war-time, and the place was literally swarming with jack-tars.

Taking to the road, for the footway was quite crowded, I soon reached Poplar.  Here a large mob impeded my progress.  They appeared all moved with extraordinary merriment.  I soon distinguished the objects of their mirth.  Two sailors, mounted back to back on a cart-horse, were steering for Blackwall.  A large horse-cloth served them as a substitute for a saddle, and the merry fellow behind held the reins; he was smoking a short pipe, while his mate was making an observation with his spy-glass.

“Starboard, Tom, starboard!” cried the one in front.

“Aye, aye-starboard it is!” replied his companion, tugging at the rein.

“Holloo, messmate! where are you bound?” bawled a sailor in the crowd.

“To the port o’ Blackwall,” replied the steersman.  “But we’re going quite in the wind’s eye, and I’m afeared we shan’t make it to-night.”

“A queer craft.”

“Werry,” replied Tom.  “Don’t answer the helm at all.”

“Any grog on board?” demanded the sailor.

“Not enough to wet the boatswain’s whistle; for, da’e see, mate, there’s no room for stowage.”

“Shiver my timbers!—­no grog!” exclaimed the other; “why—­you’ll founder.  If you don’t splice the main-brace, you’ll not make a knot an hour.  Heave to—­and let’s drink success to the voyage.”

“With all my heart, mate, for I’m precious krank with tacking.  Larboard, Tom—­larboard.”

“Aye, aye—­larboard it is.”

“Now, run her right into that ’ere spirit-shop to leeward, and let’s have a bowl.”

Tom tugged away, and soon “brought up” at the door of a wine-vaults.

“Let go the anchor,” exclaimed his messmate—­“that’s it—­coil up.”

“Here, mate—­here’s a picter of his royal majesty”—­giving the sailor alongside a new guinea—­“and now tell the steward to mix us a jorum as stiff as a nor’wester, and, let’s all drink the King’s health—­God bless him.”