“It aren’t often as we’re honoured wi’ company, sir,” said Peterday, as they sat down, “is it, Dick?”

“No,” answered the Sergeant, handing Bellew the shrimps.

“We ain’t had company to tea,” said Peterday, passing Bellew the muffins, “no, we ain’t had company to tea since the last time Miss Anthea, and Miss Priscilla honoured us, have we, Dick?”

“Honoured us,” said the Sergeant, nodding his head approvingly, “is the one, and only word for it, Peterday.”

“And the last time was this day twelve months, sir,—­because why?—­because this day twelve months ’appened to be Miss Priscilla’s birthday,—­consequently to-day is her birthday, likewise,—­wherefore the muffins, and wherefore the shrimps, sir, for they was this day to have once more graced our board, Mr. Bellew.”

“‘Graced our board,’” said the Sergeant, nodding his head again, “‘graced our board,’ is the only expression for it, Peterday.  But they disappointed us, Mr. Bellew, sir,—­on account of the sale.”

“Messmate,” said Peterday, with a note of concern in his voice, “how’s the wind?”

“Tolerable, comrade, tolerable!”

“Then—­why forget the tea?”

“Tea!” said the Sergeant with a guilty start, “why—­so I am!—­Mr. Bellew sir,—­your pardon!” and, forthwith he began to pour out the tea very solemnly, but with less precision of movement than usual, and with abstracted gaze.

“The Sergeant tells me you are a musician,” said Bellew, as Peterday handed him another muffin.

“A musician,—­me! think o’ that now!  To be sure, I do toot on the tin whistle now and then, sir, such things as ‘The British Grenadiers,’ and the ‘Girl I left behind me,’ for my shipmate, and ‘The Bay o’ Biscay,’ and ‘A Life on the Ocean Wave,’ for myself,—­but a musician, Lord!  Ye see, sir,” said Peterday, taking advantage of the Sergeant’s abstraction, and whispering confidentially behind his muffin, “that messmate o’ mine has such a high opinion o’ my gifts as is fair over-powering, and a tin whistle is only a tin whistle, after all.”

“And it is about the only instrument I could ever get the hang of,” said Bellew.

“Why—­do you mean as you play, sir?”

“Hardly that, but I make a good bluff at it.”

“Why then,—­I’ve got a couple o’ very good whistles,—­if you’re so minded we might try a doo-et, sir, arter tea.”

“With pleasure!” nodded Bellew.  But, hereupon, Peterday noticing that the Sergeant ate nothing, leaned over and touched him upon the shoulder.

“How’s the wind, now, Shipmate?” he enquired.

“Why so so, Peterday, fairish! fairish!” said the Sergeant, stirring his tea round and round, and with his gaze fixed upon the opposite wall.

“Then messmate,—­why not a muffin, or even a occasional shrimp,—­where be your appetite?”