“But did the enemy lose any men?” demanded Joey.

  “Not one; but you observe I do not say loss of life, although the Admiralty may think I refer to it — that’s not my fault. But I was perfectly correct in saying the enemy’s loss was great; for the poor devils who were in the chasse-marées, when they were brought on board, wrung their hands, and said, that they had lost their all. Now, what loss can be greater than all?

  “‘His Majesty’s vessel is much injured in her spars and rigging from the precision of the enemy’s fire; her lower rigging — running rigging being cut away, her foremast severely wounded, and, I regret to add, severely injured in the hull; but such was the activity of the officers and men, that with the exception of the foremast, which will require the services of the dockyard, in twenty-four hours we were ready to resume the contest. I am happy to say, that although we have many men hurt, we have none killed; and I trust that, under the care of the surgeon they will, most of them, be soon able to resume their duty.’”

  “But you had no men wounded?” interrupted Joey.

  “None wounded! I don’t say wounded, I only say hurt. Didn’t a dozen of the men, who were hoisting the main-topsail when the fall was cut away, all tumble backwards on the deck? And do you think they were not hurt by the fall? — of course they were; besides, one man nearly had his finger jammed off, and another burnt his hand by putting too much powder to the touch-hole of his carronade. So I continue: —

  “‘It now becomes my duty to point out to their Lordships the very meritorious conduct of Mr John Smith, an old and deserving officer, Mr James Hammond, Mr Cross, and Mr Byfleet; indeed, I may say that all the officers under my command vied in their exertions for the honour of the British flag.’

  “You see the commander had quarrelled with some of his officers at that time, and would not mention them. I tried all I could to persuade him, but he was obstinate.

  “‘I have the honour to return a list of casualties, and the names of the vessels taken, and have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant, Alcibiades Ajax Boggs.

  “‘Report of killed and wounded on board of his Majesty’s brig Weasel, in the action of the 23rd of August: — Killed, none; wounds and contusions, John Potts, William Smith, Thomas Snaggs, William Walker, and Peter Potter, able seamen; John Hobbs, Timothy Stout, and Walter Pye, marines.

  “‘Return of vessels captured in the action of the 23rd of August, by his Majesty’s brig Weasel: — Notre Dame de Miséricorde, de Rochelle; La Vengeur, de Bourdeaux; L’Étoile du Matin, de Charent.

  “‘Signed Alcibiades Ajax Boggs, Commander.’”

  “Well, I’m sure, if you had not told me otherwise, I should have thought it had been a very hard fight.”

  “That’s what they did at the Admiralty, and just what we wanted; but now I come to my other despatch, which obtained the rank for my captain; and upon which I plume myself not a little. You must know, that when cruising in the Channel, in a thick fog, and not keeping a very sharp look-out, we ran foul of a French privateer. It was about nine o’clock in the evening, and we had very few hands on deck, and those on deck were most of them, if not all, asleep. We came bang against one another, and carried away both spars and yards; and the privateer, who was by far the most alert after the accident happened, cut away a good deal of our rigging, and got clear of us before our men could be got up from below. Had they been on the look out, they might have boarded us to a certainty, for all was confusion and amazement; but they cleared themselves and got off before our men could get up and run to their guns. She was out of sight immediately, from the thickness of the fog; however, we fired several broadsides in the direction we supposed she might be; and there was an end to the matter. Altogether, as you perceive, it was not a very creditable affair.”

  “Why, no,” replied Joey; “I don’t see how you could make much out of that.”

  “Well, if you can’t see, now you shall hear: —

  “‘To the Secretary of the Admiralty.

  “‘Sir, — I have the honour to acquaint you that, on the night of the 10th of November, cruising in the Channel, with the wind from South East, and foggy, a large vessel hove in sight, on our weather bow.’

  “You see, I didn’t say we perceived a vessel, for that would not have been correct.

  “‘As she evidently did not perceive us, we continued our course towards her; the men were summoned to their quarters, and, in a very short time, were ready to uphold the honour of the English flag. The first collision between the two vessels was dreadful; but she contrived to disengage herself, and we were therefore prevented carrying her by boarding. After repeated broadsides, to which, in her disabled and confused state, she could make no return, she gradually increased her distance; still, she had remained in our hands, a proud trophy — I say, still she had been a proud trophy — had not the unequal collision’ — (it was a very unequal collision, for she was a much smaller vessel than we were)— ‘carried away our foreyard, cat-head, fore-top-gallant mast, jibboom, and dolphin-striker, and rendered us, from the state of our rigging, a mere wreck. Favoured by the thick fog and darkness of the night, I regret that, after all our efforts, she contrived to escape, and the spoils of victory were wrested from us after all our strenuous exertions in our country’s cause.

  “‘When all performed their duty in so exemplary a manner, it would be unfair, and, indeed, invidious, to particularise, still, I cannot refrain from mentioning the good conduct of Mr Smith, my first lieutenant; Mr Bowles, my second lieutenant; Mr Chabb, my worthy master; Mr Jones and Mr James, master’s mates; Messrs Hall, Small, Ball, and Pall, midshipmen; and Messrs Sweet and Sharp, volunteers. I also received every assistance from Mr Grulf, the purser, who offered his services, and I cannot omit the conduct of Mr Spikeman, clerk. I am also highly indebted to the attention and care shown by Mr Thorn, surgeon, who is so well supported in his duties by Mr Green, assistant-surgeon, of this ship. The activity of Mr Bruce, the boatswain, was deserving of the highest encomiums; and it would be an act of injustice not to notice the zeal of Mr Bile, the carpenter, and Mr Sponge, gunner of the ship. James Anderson, quarter-master, received a severe contusion, but is now doing well; I trust I shall not be considered presumptuous in recommending him to a boatswain’s warrant.

  “‘I am happy to say that our casualties, owing to the extreme panic of the enemy, are very few. I have the honour to be, Sir, your very obedient and humble servant, Alcibiades Ajax Boggs.

  “‘Wounded — Very severely, James Anderson, quarter-master. Contusions — John Peters, able seaman; James Morrison, marine; Thomas Snowball, captain’s cook.’

  “There, now; that I consider a very capital letter; no Frenchman, not even an American, could have made out a better case. The Admiralty were satisfied that something very gallant had been done, although the fog made it appear not quite so clear as it might have been; and the consequence was, that my commander received his promotion. There, now, write your letter, and tell your sister that she must answer it as soon as possible, as you are going out with me for orders in three or four days, and shall be absent for three months.”

  Joey wrote a long letter to Mary; he stated the adventure with the two scoundrels who would have robbed him, his afterwards falling in with a gentleman who dealt in cutlery, and his being taken into his service; and, as Spikeman had told him, requested her to answer directly, as he was about to set off on a circuit with his master, which would occasion his absence for three months.

  Mary’s reply came before Joey’s departure. She stated that she was comfortable and happy, that her mistress was very kind to her, but that she felt that the work was rather too much; however, she would do her duty to her employers. There was much good advice to Joey, much affectionate feeling, occasional recurrence to past scenes, and thankfulness that she was no longer a disgrace to her parents and her sex; it was a humble, grateful, contrite, and affectionate effusion, which did honour to poor Mary, and proved that she was sincere in her assertions of continuing in the right path, and dotingly attached to our hero. Joey read it over and over again, and shed tears of pleasure as he recalled the scenes which had passed. Poor Joey had lost his father and mother, as he supposed, for ever; and it was soothing to the boy’s feelings to know that there were some people in the world who loved him; and he remained for hours thinking of Mary, Mrs Chopper, and his good and kind friends, the McShanes.

  Two days after the receipt of Mary’s letter, Spikeman and Joey went to the houses of their various acquaintances, and bade them adieu, announcing their intention to set off on the circuit. Spikeman paid up everything, and put away many articles in his room which had been taken out for use. Joey and he then put on their travelling garments, and, waiting till it was dusk, locked the chambers and set off to the little public-house, where the knife-grinder’s wheel had been deposited. Spikeman had taken the precaution to smudge and dirty his face, and Joey, at his request, had done the same. When they entered the public-house, the landlord greeted Spikeman warmly, and asked him what he had been about. Spikeman replied that, as usual, he had been to see his old mother, and now he must roll his grindstone a bit. After drinking a pot of beer at the kitchen fire, they retired to bed; and the next morning, at daylight, they once more proceeded on their travels.

  Chapter Twenty Nine.

  In which the Tinker falls in Love with a Lady of High Degree.

  For many months Spikeman and our hero travelled together, during which time Joey had learnt to grind a knife or a pair of scissors as well as Spikeman himself, and took most of the work off his hands; they suited each other, and passed their time most pleasantly, indulging themselves every day with a few hours’ repose and reading on the wayside.

  One afternoon, when it was very sultry, they had stopped and ensconced themselves in a shady copse by the side of the road, not far from an old mansion, which stood on an eminence, when Spikeman said, “Joey, I think we are intruding here; and, if so, may be forcibly expelled, which will not be pleasant; so roll the wheel in, out of sight, and then we may indulge in a siesta, which, during this heat, will be very agreeable.”

  “What’s a siesta?” said Joey.

  “A siesta is a nap in the middle of the day, universally resorted to by the Spaniards, Italians, and, indeed, by all the inhabitants of hot climates; with respectable people it is called a siesta, but with a travelling tinker it must be, I suppose, called a snooze.”

  “Well, then, a snooze let it be,” said Joey, taking his seat on the turf by Spikeman, in a reclining position.

  They had not yet composed themselves to sleep, when they heard a female voice singing at a little distance. The voice evidently proceeded from the pleasure-grounds which were between them and the mansion.

  “Hush!” said Spikeman, putting up his finger, as he raised himself on his elbow.

  The party evidently advanced nearer to them, and carolled in very beautiful tones, the song of Ariel: —

  “Where the bee sucks, there lurk I,

  In the cowslip’s bell I lie,” etcetera.

  “Heigho!” exclaimed a soft voice, after the song had been finished; “I wish I could creep into a cowslip-bell. Miss Araminta, you are not coming down the walk yet; it appears you are in no hurry, so I’ll begin my new book.”

  After this soliloquy there was silence. Spikeman made a sign to Joey to remain still, and then, creeping on his hands and knees, by degrees arrived as far as he could venture to the other side of the copse.

  In a minute or two another footstep was heard coming down the gravel-walk, and soon afterwards another voice.

  “Well, Melissa, did you think I never would come? I could not help it. Uncle would have me rub his foot a little.”

  “Ay, there’s the rub,” replied the first young lady. “Well, it was a sacrifice of friendship at the altar of humanity. Poor papa! I wish I could rub his foot for him; but I always do it to a quadrille tune, and he always says I rub it too hard. I only follow the music.”

  “Yes, and so does he; for you sometimes set him a dancing, you giddy girl.”

  “I am not fit for a nurse, and that’s the fact, Araminta. I can feel for him, but I cannot sit still a minute; that you know. Poor mamma was a great loss; and, when she died, I don’t know what I should have done, if it hadn’t been for my dear cousin Araminta.”

  “Nay, you are very useful in your way, for you play and sing to him, and that soothes him.”

  “Yes, I do it with pleasure, for I can do but little else; but, Araminta, my singing is that of the caged bird. I must sing where they hang my cage. Oh, how I wish I had been a man!”

  “I believe that there never was a woman yet who has not, at one time of her life, said the same thing, however mild and quiet she may have been in disposition. But, as we cannot, why—”

  “Why, the next thing is to wish to be a man’s wife, Araminta — is it not?”

  “It is natural, I suppose, to wish so,” replied Araminta; “but I seldom think about it. I must first see the man I can love before I think about marrying.”

  “And now tell me, Araminta, what kind of a man do you think you could fancy?”

  “I should like him to be steady, generous, brave, and handsome; of unexceptionable family, with plenty of money; that’s all.”

  “Oh, that’s all! I admire your ‘that’s all.’ You are not very likely to meet with your match, I’m afraid. If he’s steady, he is not very likely to be very generous; and if to those two qualifications you tack on birth, wealth, beauty, and bravery, I think your ‘that’s all’ is very misplaced. Now, I have other ideas.”

  “Pray let me have them, Melissa.”

  “I do not want my husband to be very handsome; but I wish him to be full of fire and energy — a man that — in fact, a man that could keep me in tolerable order. I do not care about his having money, as I have plenty in my own possession to bestow on any man I love; but he must be of good education — very fond of reading — romantic, not a little; and his extraction must be, however poor, respectable, — that is, his parents must not have been tradespeople. You know I prefer riding a spirited horse to a quiet one; and, if I were to marry, I should like a husband who would give me some trouble to manage. I think I would master him.”

  “So have many thought before you, Melissa; but they have been mistaken.”

  “Yes, because they have attempted it by meekness and submission, thinking to disarm by that method. It never will do, any more than getting into a passion. When a man gives up his liberty, he does make a great sacrifice — that I’m sure of; and a woman should prevent him feeling that he is chained to her.”

  “And how would you manage that?” said Araminta.

  “By being infinite in my variety, always cheerful, and instead of permitting him to stay at home, pinned to my apron-string, order him out away from me, join his amusements, and always have people in the house that he liked, so as to avoid being too much tête-à-tête. The caged bird ever wants to escape; open the doors, and let him take a flight, and he will come back of his own accord. Of course, I am supposing my gentleman to be naturally good-hearted and good-tempered. Sooner than marry what you call a steady, sober man, I’d run away with a captain of a privateer. And, one thing more, Araminta, I never would, passionately, distractedly fond as I might be, acknowledge to my husband the extent of my devotion and affection for him. I would always have him to suppose that I could still love him better than what I yet did — in short, that there was more to be gained; for, depend upon it, when a man is assured that he has nothing more to gain, his attentions are over. You can’t expect a man to chase nothing, you know.”

  “You are a wild girl, Melissa. I only hope you will marry well.”

  “I hope I shall; but I can tell you this, that if I do make a mistake, at all events my husband will find that he has made a mistake also. There’s a little lurking devil in me, which, if roused up by bad treatment, would, I expect, make me more than a match for him. I’m almost sorry that I’ve so much money of my own, for I suspect every man who says anything pretty to me; and there are but few in this world who would scorn to marry for money.”

  “I believe so, Melissa; but your person would be quite sufficient without fortune.”

  “Thanks, coz; for a woman that’s very handsome of you. And so now we will begin our new book.”

  Miss Melissa now commenced reading; and Spikeman, who had not yet seen the faces of the two young ladies, crept softly nearer to the side of the copse, so as to enable him to satisfy his curiosity. In this position he remained nearly an hour; when the book was closed, and the young ladies returned to the house, Melissa again singing as she went.

  “Joey,” said Spikeman, “I did not think that there was such a woman in existence as that girl; she is just the idea that I have formed of what a woman ought to be; I must find out who she is; I am in love with her, and—”

  “Mean to make her a tinker’s bride,” replied Joey, laughing.

  “Joey, I shall certainly knock you down, if you apply that term to her. Come let us go to the village, — it is close at hand.”

  As soon as they arrived at the village, Spikeman went into the alehouse. During the remainder of the day he was in a brown study, and Joey amused himself with a book. At nine o’clock the company had all quitted the tap-room, and then Spikeman entered into conversation with the hostess. In the course of conversation, she informed him that the mansion belonged to Squire Mathews, who had formerly been a great manufacturer, and who had purchased the place; that the old gentleman had long suffered from the gout, and saw no company, which was very bad for the village; that Miss Melissa was his daughter, and he had a son, who was with his regiment in India, and, it was said, not on very good terms with his father; that the old gentleman was violent and choleric because he was always in pain; but that every one spoke well of Miss Melissa and Miss Araminta, her cousin, who were both very kind to the poor people. Having obtained these particulars, Spikeman went to bed: he slept little that night, as Joey, who was his bedfellow, could vouch for; for he allowed Joey no sleep either, turning and twisting round in the bed every two minutes. The next morning they arose early, and proceeded on their way.