he called him, he had found the window open, and it appeared that he had been unwell—he supposed that he had thrown his trousers out of the window. Time flew, and the boatswain was in despair. “Could they lend him a pair?”

“He would call his master.”

The master of the inn knew very well the difference of rank between officers, and those whom he could trust and those whom he could not. He sent up the bill by the waiter, and stated that, for a deposit, the gentleman might have a pair of trousers. The boatswain felt in his pockets and remembered that all his money was in his trousers pocket. He could not only not leave a deposit, but could not pay his bill. The landlord was inexorable. It was bad enough to lose his money, but he could not lose more.

“I shall be tried by a court—martial, by heavens!” exclaimed the boatswain. “It’s not far from the sally- port; I’ll make a run for it, and I can slip into one of the boats and get another pair of trousers before I report myself as having come on board;” so, making up his mind, the boatswain took to his heels, and with his check shirt tails streaming in the wind, ran as hard as he could to where the boat was waiting to receive him. He was encountered by many, but he only ran the faster the more they jeered, and, at last, arrived breathless at his goal, flew down the steps, jumped into the boat, and squatted on the stern sheets, much to the surprise of the officers and men, who thought him mad. He stated in a few words that somebody had stolen his trousers during the night; and as it was already late, the boat shoved off, the men as well as the officers convulsed with laughter.

“Have any of you a pea—jacket?” inquired the boatswain of the men—but the weather was so warm that none of them had brought a pea—jacket. The boatswain looked round; he perceived that the officers were sitting on a boat—cloak.

“Whose boat—cloak is that?” inquired the boatswain.

“Mine,” replied Gascoigne.

“I trust, Mr. Gascoigne, you will have the kindness to lend it to me to go up the side with.”

“Indeed I will not,” replied Gascoigne, who would sooner have thrown it overboard and have lost it, than not beheld the anticipated fun; “recollect I asked you for a fishing line, when we were becalmed off Cape St. Vincent, and you sent word that you’d see me d—d first. Now I’ll just see you the same before you have my boat—cloak.”

“Oh, Mr. Gascoigne, I’ll give you three lines, directly I get on board.”

“I dare say you will, but that won’t do now. ‘Tit for tat,’ Mr. Boatswain, and hang all favours,” replied Gascoigne, who was steering the boat, having been sent on shore for the others. “In bow—rowed of all.” The boat was laid alongside—the relentless Gascoigne caught up his boat—cloak as the other officers rose to go on board, and rolling it up, in spite of the earnest entreaties of Mr. Biggs, tossed it into the main chains to the man who had thrown the stern—fast, and to make the situation of Mr. Biggs still more deplorable, the first—lieutenant was standing looking into the boat, and Captain Wilson walking the quarter—deck.

“Come, Mr. Biggs, I expected you off in the first boat,” cried Mr. Sawbridge, “be as smart as you please, for the yards are not yet squared.”

“Shall I go ahead in this boat, and square them, sir?”

“That boat, no; let her drop astern, jump up here and lower down the dingey. What the devil do you sit there for, Mr. Biggs?—you’ll oblige me by showing a little more activity, or, by Jove, you may save yourself the trouble of asking to go on shore again. Are you sober, sir?”