But if half only of the accounts are true that I have heerd of them,
they must be the devil's own seminaries of vice--that's a fact. Every
mite and morsel as bad as the barrack scenes that we read of lately.
"Well, at the end of a week back come the sailors. They have had a
glorious lark and enjoyed themselves beyond anything in the world, for
they are pale, sick, sleepy, tired out, cleaned out, and kicked out,
with black eyes, broken heads, swelled cheeks, minus a few teeth, half
their clothes, and all their money.
"'What,' says the captain, 'what's the matter with you, Tom Marlin,
that you limp so like a lame duck?'
"'Nothing, your honour,' says Tom, twitching his forelock, and making
a scrape with his hind leg, 'nothing, your honour, but a scratch from
a bagganet.'
"'What! a fight with the soldiers, eh? The cowardly rascals to use
their side arms!'
"'We cleared the house of them, Sir, in no time.'
"'That's right. Now go below, my lads, and turn in and get a good
sleep. I like to see my lambs enjoy themselves. It does my heart
good.'
"And yet, Cutler, that man is said to be a father to his crew."
"Slick," said Cutler, "what a pity it is you wouldn't always talk that
way!" Now if there is any created thing that makes me mad, it is to
have a feller look admiren at me, when I utter a piece of plain common
sense like that, and turn up the whites of his eyes like a duck in
thunder, as much as to say, what a pity it is you weren't broughten up
a preacher.
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