Among the ship’s company who were wounded was Mesty; he had been hurt with a splinter before the Trident was taken by the board, but had remained on deck, and had followed our hero, watching over him and protecting him as a father. He had even done more, for he had with Jack thrown himself before Captain Wilson, at a time that he had received such a blow with the flat of a sword as to stun him, and bring him down on his knee. And Jack had taken good care that Captain Wilson should not be ignorant, as he really would have been, of this timely service on the part of Mesty, who certainly, although with a great deal of sang froid in his composition when in repose, was a fiend incarnate when his blood was up.

“But you must have been with Mesty,” observed Captain Wilson, “when he did me the service.”

“I was with him, sir,” replied Jack, with great modesty, “but was of very little service.”

“How is your friend Gascoigne this evening?”

“Oh, not very bad, sir—he wants a glass of grog.”

“And Mr. Martin?”

Jack shook his head.

“Why, the surgeon thinks he will do well.”

“Yes, sir, and so I told Martin; but he said that it was very well to give him hope—but that he thought otherwise.”

“You must manage him, Mr. Easy; tell him that he is sure of his promotion.”

“I have, sir, but he won’t believe it. He never will believe it till he has his commission signed. I really think that an acting order would do more than the doctor can.”

“Well, Mr. Easy, he shall have one to-morrow morning. Have you seen Mr. Pottyfar? he, I am afraid, is very bad.”

“Very bad, sir; and they say is worse every day, and yet his wound is healthy, and ought to be doing well.”

Such was the conversation between Jack and his captain as they sat at breakfast on the third morning after the action.

The next day Easy took down an acting order for Martin, and put it into his hands. The mate read it over as he lay bandaged in his hammock.

“It’s only an acting order, Jack,” said he; “it may not be confirmed.”

Jack swore, by all the articles of war, that it would be; but Martin replied that he was sure it never would.

“No, no,” said the mate, “I knew very well that I never should be made. If it is not confirmed, I may live; but if it is, I am sure to die.”

Every one that went to Martin’s hammock wished him joy of his promotion; but six days after the action, poor Martin’s remains were consigned to the deep.

The next person who followed him was Mr. Pottyfar, the first-lieutenant, who had contrived, wounded as he was, to reach a packet of the universal medicine, and had taken so many bottles before he was found out, that he was one morning found dead in his bed, with more than two dozen empty phials under