We now took our seats on the deck, round the saucepan, for we did not trouble ourselves with dishes, and the Dominie appeared to enjoy the lobscouse very much. In the course of half-an-hour all was over; that is to say, we had eaten as much as we wished; and the Newfoundland dog, who, during our repast, lay close by young Tom, flapping the deck with his tail, and the savoury smell of the compound, had just licked all our plates quite clean, and was now finishing with his head in the saucepan; while Tom was busy carrying the crockery into the cabin, and bringing out the bottle and tin pannikins, ready for the promised .  
“There, now, master, there’s a glass o’ grog for you that would float a marline-spike. See if that don’t warm the cockles of your old heart.”
 
“Ay,” added Tom, “and set all your muscles as as weather backstays.”
 
“Master Tom, with your leave, I’ll mix your grog for you myself. Hand me back that bottle, you .”
 
“Just as you please, father,” replied Tom, handing the bottle; “but , none of your water bewitched. Only help me as you love me.”
 
Old Tom mixed a pannikin of grog for Tom, and another for himself. I hardly need say which was the stiffer of the two.
 
“Well, father, I suppose you think the grog will run short. To be sure, one bottle aren’t too much ’mong four of us.”
 
“One bottle, you scamp! there’s another in the cupboard.”
 
“Then you must see double already, father.”
 
Old Tom, who was startled at this news, and who imagined that Tom must have gained possession of the other bottle, jumped up and made for the cupboard, to whether what Tom asserted was correct. This was what Tom wished; he immediately changed pannikins of grog with his father, and remained quiet.
 
“There is another bottle, Tom,” said his father, coming out and taking his seat again. “I knew there was. You young rascal, you don’t know how you frightened me!” And old Tom put the pannikin to his lips. “Drowned the , by heavens!” said he, “What could I have been about?” ejaculated he, adding more spirit to his mixture.
 
“I suppose, upon the strength of another bottle in the , you are doubling the strength of your grog. Come, father,” and Tom held out his pannikin, “do put a little drop in mine—it’s seven-water grog, and I’m not on the black-list.”
 
“No, no, Tom; your next shall be stronger. Well, master, how do you like your liquor?”
 
“Verily,” replied the Dominie, “it is a pleasant and liquor. Lo and ! I am at the bottom of my .”
 
“Stop till I fill it up again, old gentleman. I see you are one of the right sort. You know what the song says—
 
“A plague on those musty old lubbers,
 
    Who tell us to fast and to think,
 
And patient fall in with life’s rubbers,
 
    With nothing but water to drink!
 
“Water, indeed! The only use of water I know is to mix your grog with, and float up and down the world. Why was the sea made salt, but to prevent our drinking too much water. Water, indeed!
 
“A can of good grog, had they swigg’d it,
 
    T’would have set them for pleasure ,
 
        And in spite of the rules
 
        Of the schools,
 
        The old fools
 
Would have all of them swigg’d it,
 
And swore there was nothing like grog.”
 
“I’m exactly of your opinion, father,” said Tom, holding out his empty pannikin.
 
“Always ready for two things, Master Tom—grog and ; but, however, you shall have one more dose.”
 
“It hath, then, medicinal ?” inquired the Dominie.
 
“Ay, that it has, master—more than all the medicines in the world. It cures grief and , and prevents spirits from getting low.”
 
“I doubt that, father,” cried Tom, holding up the bottle “for the more grog we drink, the more the spirits become low.”
 
Cluck, cluck, came from the thorax of the Dominie. “Verily, friend Tom, it appeareth, among other virtues, to sharpen the wits. Proceed, friend Dux, in the medicinal virtues of grog.”
 
“Well, master, it cures love when it’s not returned, and adds to it when it is. I’ve heard say it will cure ; but that I’ve my doubts of. Now I think on it, I will tell you a about a jealous match between a couple of fools. Jacob, aren’t your pannikin empty, my boy?”
 
“Yes,” replied I, handing it up to be filled. It was empty, for, not being very fond of it myself, Tom, with my permission, had drunk it as well as his own.
 
“There, Jacob, is a good dose for you; you aren’t always after it, like Tom.”
 
“He isn’t troubled with low spirits, as I am, father.”
 
“How long has that been your complaint, Tom?” inquired I.
 
“Ever since I heard how to cure it. Come, father, give us the yarn.”
 
“Well, then, you must mind that an old shipmate o’ mine, Ben Leader, had a wife named Poll, a pretty sort of craft in her way—neat in her rigging, swelling-bows, taking sort of figure-head, and devilish well rounded in the counter; altogether, she was a very fancy girl, and all the men were after her. She’d a roguish eye, and liked to be stared at, as most pretty women do, because it flatters their vanities. Now, although she liked to be noticed so far by the other chaps, yet Ben was the only one she ever wished to be handled by; it was ‘Paws off, Pompey!’ with all the rest. Ben Leader was a good-looking, active, smart chap, and could foot it in a reel, or take a at single-stick with the very best o’ them; and she was mortal fond of him, and mortal jealous if he talked to any other woman, for the women liked Ben as much as the men liked she. Well, as they returned love for love, so did they return jealousy for jealousy; and the lads and lasses, seeing that, had a pleasure in making them come to a misunderstanding. So every day it became worse and worse between them. Now, I always says that it’s a stupid thing to be jealous, ’cause if there be cause, there be no cause for love and if there be no cause, there be no cause for jealousy.”
 
“You’re like a row in a rookery, father—nothing but caws,” interrupted Tom.
 
“Well, I suppose I am; but that’s what I call chop logic—aren’t it, master?”
 
“It was a syllogism,” replied the Dominie, taking the pannikin from his mouth.
 
“I don’t know what that is, nor do I want to know,” replied old Tom; “so I’ll just go on with my story. Well, at last they came to downright fighting. Ben licks Poll ’cause she talked and laughed with other men, and Poll cries and all day ’cause he won’t sit on her knee, instead of going on board and ’tending to his duty. Well, one night, a’ter work was over, Ben goes on shore to the house where he and Poll used to sleep; and when he sees the girl in the bar, he says, ‘Where is Poll?’ Now, the girl at the bar was a fresh-comer, and answers, ‘What girl?’ So Ben describes her, and the bar-girl answers, ‘She be just gone to bed with her husband, I suppose;’ for, you see, there was a woman like her who had gone up to her bed, sure enough. When Ben heard that, he gave his trousers one , and calls for a quartern, drinks it off with a sigh, and leaves the house, believing it all to be true. A’ter Ben was gone, Poll makes her appearance, and when she finds Ben w............