“Of course you don’t, sir,” chuckled Peterday, “well then, to-night he marches away—­in full regimentals, sir,—­to mount guard.  And—­where, do you suppose?—­why, I’ll tell you,—­under Miss Priscilla’s window!  He gets there as the clock is striking eleven, and there he stays, a marching to and fro, until twelve o’clock.  Which does him a world o’ good, sir, and noways displeases Miss Priscilla,—­because why?—­because she don’t know nothing whatever about it.”  Hereupon, Peterday rose, and crossing to a battered sea-man’s chest in the corner, came back with three or four tin whistles which he handed to Bellew, who laid aside his pipe, and, having selected one, ran tentatively up and down the scale while Peterday listened attentive of ear, and beaming of face.

“Sir,” said he, “what do you say to ‘Annie Laurie’ as a start—­shall we give ’em ’Annie Laurie’?—­very good!—­ready?—­go!”

Thus, George Bellew, American citizen, and millionaire, piped away on a tin whistle with all the gusto in the world,—­introducing little trills, and flourishes, here and there, that fairly won the one-legged sailor’s heart.

They had already “given ’em” three or four selections, each of which had been vociferously encored by Peterday, or Bellew,—­and had just finished an impassioned rendering of the “Suwanee River,” when the Sergeant appeared with his boots beneath his arm.

“Shipmate!” cried Peterday, flourishing his whistle, “did ye ever hear a tin whistle better played, or mellerer in tone?”

“Meller—­is the only word for it, comrade,—­and your playing sirs, is—­artistic—­though doleful.  P’raps you wouldn’t mind giving us something brighter—­a rattling quick-step?  P’raps you might remember one as begins: 

  ’Some talk of Alexander
   And some, of Hercules;’

if it wouldn’t be troubling you too much?”

Forthwith they burst forth into “The British Grenadiers?” and never did tin whistles render the famous old tune with more fire, and dash.  As the stirring notes rang out, the Sergeant, standing upon the hearth, seemed to grow taller, his broad chest expanded, his eyes glowed, a flush crept up into his cheek, and the whole man thrilled to the music as he had done, many a time and oft, in years gone by.  As the last notes died away, he glanced down at the empty sleeve pinned across his breast, shook his head, and thanking them in a very gruff voice indeed, turned on his heel, and busied himself at his little cupboard.  Peterday now rose, and set a jug together with three glasses upon the table, also spoons, and a lemon, keeping his “weather-eye” meanwhile, upon the kettle,—­which last, condescending to boil obligingly, he rapped three times with his wooden leg.

“Right O, shipmate!” he cried, very much as though he had been hailing the “main-top,” whereupon the Sergeant emerged from between the clothes-press and the dresser with a black bottle in his hand, which he passed over to Peterday who set about brewing what he called a “jorum o’ grog,” the savour of which filled the place with a right pleasant fragrance.  And, when the glasses brimmed, each with a slice of lemon a-top,—­the Sergeant solemnly rose.