  The leave enjoyed by Decatur and Somers was brief, and before the summer of 1801 was out they were forced to part. For the first time in their young lives their paths were to diverge for a short while, and to be reunited in the end. But their separation was for a reason honorable to both. Decatur was appointed first lieutenant in the frigate Essex—like most of those early ships of the American navy, destined to a splendid career. She was commanded by Captain Bainbridge, whose fate was afterward strangely linked with that of his young first lieutenant. The Essex was one of a squadron of three noble frigates ordered to the Mediterranean, under the command of Commodore Richard Dale; and this Richard Dale had been the first lieutenant of Paul Jones, the glory of the American navy, in the immortal fight between the Bon Homme Richard and the Serapis. The association with such a man as Commodore Dale was an inspiration to an enthusiast like Decatur; and as he found that Danny Dixon was one of the quartermasters on the Essex, it was not likely that there would be any lack of reminiscences of Paul Jones. Somers’s appointment was to the Boston, a fine sloop-of-war carrying twenty-eight guns, commanded by Captain McNeill. He was destined to many adventures before again meeting Decatur, for Captain McNeill was one of the oddities of the American navy, who, although an able seaman and a good commander, preferred to conduct his cruise according to his own ideas and in defiance of instructions from home. This Somers found out the instant he stepped upon the Boston’s deck at New York. The Essex was at New York also, and the two friends had traveled from Philadelphia together. Out in the stream lay the President, flying a commodore’s broad pennant. “And although, ‘being grand first luffs,’ we can’t be shipmates, yet we’ll both be in the same squadron, Dick!” cried Decatur. “True,” answered Somers, “and a Mediterranean cruise! Think of the oldsters that would like to go to Europe, instead of us youngsters!” So their anticipations were cheerful enough, each thinking their separation but temporary, and that for three years certainly they would serve in the same squadron. The two friends reached New York late at night, and early next morning each reported on board his ship. The Essex was a small but handsome frigate, mounting thirty-two guns, and was lying close by the Boston at the dock. As the two young lieutenants, neither of whom was more than twenty-one, came in sight of their ships, each hugged himself at the contemplation of his luck in getting so good a one. Decatur’s interview with Captain Bainbridge was pleasant, although formal. Captain Bainbridge knew Captain Decatur well, and made civil inquiries about Decatur’s family and congratulations upon James Decatur—Stephen’s younger brother—having lately received a midshipman’s appointment. Captain Bainbridge introduced him to the wardroom, and Decatur realized that at one bound he had cleared the gulf between the first place in the steerage and the ranking officer in the wardroom. All this took but an hour or two of time, and presently Decatur found himself standing on the dock and waiting for Somers, who had left the Boston about the same time. As Somers approached, his usual somber face was smiling. Something ludicrous had evidently occurred. “What is it?” hallooed Decatur. Somers took Decatur’s arm before answering, and as they strolled along the busy streets near the harbor he told his story amid bursts of laughter: “Well, I went on board, and was introduced into the captain’s cabin. There sat Captain McNeill, a red-headed old fellow, with a squint; but you can’t help knowing that he is a man of force. He talks through his nose, and what he says is like himself—very peculiar. “‘Now, Mr. Somers,’ said he, drawling, ‘I daresay you look forward to a devil of a gay time at the Mediterranean ports, with all that squadron that Dale has got to show off with.’ I was a good deal taken aback, but I said Yes, I did. ‘Very well, sir, make up your mind that you won’t have a devil of a gay time with that squadron.’ I was still more taken aback, and, being anxious to agree with the captain, I said it didn’t make any difference; I looked for more work than play on a cruise. This didn’t seem to please the captain either, so he banged his fist down on the table, and roared: ‘No, you don’t, sir—no, you don’t! You are no doubt longing this minute to be on that ship’—pointing out of the stern port at the President—‘and to have that broad pennant waving over you. But take a good look at it, Mr. Somers—take a good long look at it, Mr. Somers, for you may not see it again!’ “You may fancy how astonished I was; but when I went down into the wardroom and talked with the officers I began to understand the old fellow. It seems he hates to be under orders. He has always managed to have an independent command, but this time the navy officials were too smart for him, and he was ordered to join Commodore Dale’s squadron. But he managed to get orders so that he could join the squadron in the Mediterranean, instead of at Hampton Roads, where the other ships are to rendezvous; and the fellows in the wardroom say they wouldn’t be surprised if they never saw the flagship from the time they leave home until they get back.” “That will be bad for you and me, Dick,” said Decatur simply. “Very bad,” answered Somers. Their deep affection was sparingly soluble in language, but those few words meant much. Within a week the Boston was to sail, and one night, about nine o’clock, the wind and tide serving, she slipped down the harbor to the outer bay, whence at daylight she was to set sail on her long cruise. Decatur bade Somers good-by on the dock, just as the gang-plank was being drawn in. They had but few parting words to say to each other; their lives had been so intimate, they knew each other’s thoughts so completely, that at the last there was nothing to tell. As they stood hand in hand in the black shadow cast by the Boston’s dark hull, Decatur, whose feelings were quick, felt the tears rising to his eyes; while Somers, the calm, the self-contained, suddenly threw his arms about his friend and gave Decatur a hug and a kiss, as if his whole heart were in it; then running up the gang-plank, the next moment he was giving the orders of his responsible position in a firm tone and with perfect alertness. Decatur turned, and, going a little distance off, watched while the frigate slowly swung round and headed for the open bay, stealing off like a ghostly ship in the darkness. He felt the strongest and strangest sense of loss he had ever known in his life. He had many friends. James, his brother, who had entered the navy, was near his own age, but Somers was his other self. Unlike as they were in temperament, no two souls ever were more alike in the objects aimed at. Each had a passion for glory, and each set before himself the hope of some great achievement, and ordered his life accordingly. This strange loneliness hung upon Decatur, and although his new duties and his new friends were many, there were certain chambers of his heart that remained closed to the whole world except Somers. He found on the Essex a modest young midshipman, Thomas Macdonough, who reminded him so much of Somers that Decatur became much attached to him. Macdonough, like Somers and Decatur, lived to make glorious history for his country. Within a few days the Essex sailed, in company with the President, flagship, the Philadelphia, and the schooner Enterprise. This cruise was the beginning of that warfare against the pirates of Tripoli that was to win the commendation of the whole world. They made a quick passage, for a squadron, to the Mediterranean, and on a lovely July night, with the flagship leading, they passed Europa Point and stood toward the lionlike form of the Rock of Gibraltar that rose in stupendous majesty before them. A glorious moon bathed all the scene with light—the beautiful harbor, with a great line-of-battle ship, the Thunderer, flying British colors; while half a dozen fair frigates looked like sloops alongside of this warlike monster, which carried a hundred and twenty guns and a crew of nearly a thousand men. At the extremity of the harbor lay a handsome frigate and a brig, both flying the crescent of Tripoli. The large ship also flew the pennant of an admiral. There being good anchorage between the Tripolitan and the British line-of-battle ship, Commodore Dale stood in, and the American squadron anchored between the two. Early next morning Decatur went ashore in the first cutter, by Captain Bainbridge’s orders, to find out the state of affairs with Tripoli. He also hoped to hear something of Somers, who had sailed a week in advance. He heard startling news enough about the Barbary pirates. The flagstaff of the American legation at Tripoli had been cut down, and war was practically declared. But as the information had not reached the United States before the squadron left, the commodore was not justified in beginning hostilities until he had received formal notice of the declaration of war from the home Government. Nevertheless, the Tripolitans and the Americans watched each other grimly in the harbor. As for Somers, Decatur was bitterly disappointed not to see him. The Boston had been quietly at anchor the day before, when a clipper ship that outsailed the American squadron, which was in no particular hurry, gave notice that the ships were coming. Instantly Captain McNeill gave orders to get under way; officers were hurriedly sent ashore to collect those of the ship’s company on leave or liberty, and before nightfall the Boston was hull down going up the straits. When Decatur brought the news on board, Captain Bainbridge frowned, and laughed too. “The commodore will have harder work to catch the Boston than anything else he is likely to give chase to,” he said. Commodore Dale determined to await orders at Gibraltar before making a regular attack on Tripoli, but he caused it to be boldly announced by the American officers, meanwhile, that if the Tripolitans wanted to fight, all they had to do was to lift their anchors, go outside and back their topsails, and he would be ready for them. The British naval officers, at that time, treated the American officers with studied ill-will, for they had not yet learned to look with pride upon the United States as a country made by themselves, and which Great Britain found unconquerable because its people were of the same sturdy stock as her own. The cooler heads and better hearts among the English officers at Gibraltar counseled courtesy, but among the younger men it was sometimes difficult to avoid clashes. Especially was this the case as regards Commodore Dale’s squadron, for he was connected with an episode hateful to the British, but glorious to both themselves and the Americans—the capture of the Serapis by Paul Jones. The squadron was kept in the highest state of drill and efficiency, not only as a matter of necessary precaution, but as one of professional pride and duty; and the trim American officers and the clean and orderly American seamen made a brave showing alongside of those belonging to England, the Mistress of the Seas. One night, a week or two after their arrival, as Decatur was pacing the deck of the Essex, he heard a splash at the bow, and going forward he saw a man swimming rapidly away from the ship. Suspecting this to be a deserter, he at once had a boat lowered; and as Macdonough, Decatur’s favorite midshipman, was about swinging himself into it, Danny Dixon came up. “Mr. Decatur,” said he, touching his cap, “that ’ere man is a deserter, sir, and he’ll be making for the Thunderer, sure. His name is John Hally, and he come from New York State, and he’s been a scamp ever since I knowed him—and that’s ten year ago. He’s a thief, and he’s stole a mort o’ things; but he ain’t been caught yet. I told him this arternoon I was agoin’ to report him for gittin’ into the men’s ditty-bags; and you see, sir, he’s showin’ us his heels.” “Jump in the boat, then,” said Decatur. “You may help to identify him.” The Thunderer lay about four hundred yards away, and the deserter’s course in the water was perfectly visible every foot of the distance. He evidently saw the boat following, and dived once or twice to throw his pursuers off the track. The noise made by the boat aroused the attention of the people on the Thunderer. They came to the rail peering through the darkness of the night, and presently a lantern was waved over the side. Decatur, who watched it all with interest, was convinced that this was done by order of an officer, and the object was to help the deserter from the American frigate. Sure enough, as soon as the swimmer reached the great line-of-battle ship a line was thrown him, and he was dragged bodily through an open port on the berth deck. Almost at the same moment the Essex’s boat came alongside, and young Macdonough ran up the gangway and stepped on the quarter-deck. Captain Lockyer, who commanded the Thunderer, happened to be on deck, and to him Macdonough addressed himself. This young midshipman, like most of the gallant band of officers in the infant navy, afterward earned a name great in the history of his country. But he was always of a peculiarly gentle and even diffident manner, and his mildness, like that of Somers, was sometimes mistaken for want of spirit. It was in this instance; for when he saluted Captain Lockyer, and modestly asked that the deserter be delivered to him, he was only answered by a curt order to have the man brought on deck, adding, “Your ships, sir, are full of British subjects, and if this man is one I shall retain him.” Macdonough flushed redly, but feeling it to be more dignified to say nothing, he held his tongue. The captain took a turn up and down the deck, without deigning any further notice of him. Macdonough, not thinking the rudeness of the captain would extend to the officers, turned to a young lieutenant, who happened to be Captain Lockyer’s son, lounging on the rail, and said: “I am very thirsty. Will you be good enough to order me a glass of water?” “Yonder is the scuttle-butt,” coolly responded the officer, pointing to the water-butt with its tin dipper. Macdonough, without a word, folded his arms, and made no move toward the water-butt. The other British officers, standing about, looked rather uncomfortable at the discourtesy shown the young midshipman, but none of them attempted to repair it or to teach manners to the captain’s son. Macdonough, who not many years after captured seventeen British ensigns in one day, stood, insulted and indignant, in silence, upon the deck of the British ship. In a few moments the deserter, who had been supplied with dry clothes, appeared on deck. As he was an able-bodied fellow, he would be very acceptable among the crew of the Thunderer, so the captain addressed him in very mild terms: “Well, my man, are you a British or an American citizen?” “British, sir,” responded the deserter boldly. “This man,” said Macdonough to Captain Lockyer, “is an American citizen from the State of New York. He enlisted as an American citizen, and I can prove it by one of our quartermasters in the boat.—Here, Dixon!” Danny Dixon, hearing his name, now appeared over the side, touching his cap politely. “Do you not know this man, John Hally, to be an American citizen?” asked Macdonough. “Yes, sir,” replied the quartermaster. “I’ve knowed him for ten year, and sailed two cruises with him. He’s got a family on Long Island. He ain’t no more British nor I am.” “Perhaps you are, then,” said Captain Lockyer. “Your crews are full of British subjects.” “No, sir,” answered Danny, very civilly. “I was born in Philadelphy, and I’ve been in the ’Merican navy ever since I were eleven year old, when I was a powder-monkey aboard o’ the Bunnum Richard, that ’ere old hulk with forty-two guns, when she licked the bran-new S’rapis, fifty guns. The Richard had Cap’n Paul Jones for a cap’n.” Angry as Macdonough was, he could scarcely keep from laughing at Danny’s sly dig. But Captain Lockyer was furious. “Is this the state of discipline prevailing among your crew—allowing them to harangue their superiors on the quarter-deck?” he asked cuttingly, of Macdonough. “Captain Bainbridge, sir, of the Essex, is fully capable of maintaining discipline without any suggestion from the officers of the Thunderer,” answered Macdonough firmly, “and the question to be decided is, whether the word of the officers and men of the Essex is to be taken, or this man’s, regarding his citizenship.” “It is the practice in the British navy to take the word of the man himself, as being most likely to know the facts in the case,” said Captain Lockyer, “and I decline to give up this man.” True it was that such was the practice in the British navy, because it had the power to make good its high-handed measure. “I do not feel myself qualified to deal with the question any further, then,” said Macdonough, “and I shall return on board the Essex and report to Captain Bainbridge,” and in another moment he had bowed formally and entered his boat. When he reached the Essex, Captain Bainbridge was not on board, having gone ashore early in the evening, so Decatur was in command. Decatur’s anger knew no bounds. He stormed up and down the deck, sent a messenger off to the captain, and altogether was in just the sort of rage that an impetuous young officer would be in under like circumstances. But retaliation was nearer at hand than he imagined. While he and the other officers were collected in groups on deck, discussing the exasperating event, Danny Dixon, his face wreathed in smiles, approached. “Mr. Decatur,” said he, unable to repress a grin of delight, “one o’ the finest-lookin’ sailor men I ever see, hearin’ ’em say on the Thunderer as how ’twas a rule to take a man’s word ’bout the country he belongs to, jist sneaked into our boat, sir, and hid hisself under the gunwale; and when we was h’istin’ the boat in, out he pops, sir, and swears he’s a ’Merican that was pressed into the British sarvice.” Now, a man might very well have concealed himself in the boat, by the connivance of the men, without Macdonough’s seeing him, but how Danny Dixon could have avoided knowing it was a miracle. Nevertheless, he remarked solemnly: “Didn’t a man in the boat see him, neither, sir—so they say; and, bein’ sailor men, ’tain’t likely they’d lie about it, sir.” Decatur and Macdonough, charmed with this state of affairs, could hardly refrain from winking at one another; but Decatur only said: “Very well, Dixon; if he says he’s an American, mind, we’ll keep him.” “He’ll say so, sir,” answered Danny, making no effort at all to suppress his enjoyment. Good luck followed good luck. Within ten minutes the rattle of hoisting out a boat from the Thunderer was heard, and in a little while it was seen pulling across the dark water in which the stars were faintly reflected. The man’s getting into the American boat had been suspected, and his absence discovered. But no midshipman had been sent after him. Lieutenant Lockyer, the officer who had been so rude to Macdonough, and who, in spite of his bad manners, was a young officer of experience and determination, was sent in the first cutter. As soon as he stepped on deck Decatur greeted him politely, but all the other officers maintained an unbroken silence. Lockyer began at once, in a dictatorial manner: “One of our men, sir, Moriarity by name, slipped into your boat a bit ago, and is probably on board now, and I have come to request, in Captain Lockyer’s name, that this man be delivered to me.” Lockyer’s “request” sounded very much like “demand.” “Certainly,” replied Decatur, with much suavity. “If the man acknowledges himself a British subject, he shall be delivered to you at once, to be punished as a deserter. But it is the rule in the American navy to take the word of the man in question respecting his citizenship, upon which he is likely to be the person best informed.” This rule was improvised for the occasion, but Decatur was not the man to be taken at a disadvantage, and he quoted Captain Lockyer’s words to Macdonough with a sarcastic emphasis that was infuriating to the young lieutenant. Decatur then turned to Danny Dixon and said, “Bring the man Moriarity on deck, if he is on the ship.” Danny touched his hat, and in a few moments appeared with a young sailor, of splendid physique, but with a bright red head, and the first word he uttered was in a brogue that could be cut with a knife. “Are you a British or an American citizen?” asked Decatur. “Amurican, sorr,” almost shouted Moriarity. “I and all me posterity was born in Ameriky, begorra, and I niver was in ould Oireland, God bless her!” Decatur could scarcely keep his countenance, and the other officers were all seized at the same time with coughing spells. “Who said anything about Ireland?” asked Lieutenant Lockyer sharply. “You are as Irish as potatoes, and you were never out of Ireland in your life until you enlisted on the Thunderer.” “Bedad, sorr, I’d be proud to be an Oirishman,” responded Moriarity with a grin. “It’s not denyin’ of it I’d be, but me mother was of a noble Italian family, in rejuced circumstances, be the name of Murphy, and me father was a Spanish gintleman be the name of Moriarirty, and I was born in Ameriky, sorr, and pressed into the Thunderer”; and, turning to Decatur, he added, “And I claims the protection of the Amurican flag.” Lockyer was silent with rage and chagrin, but Decatur spoke up with undisturbed blandness: “You see, sir, how this matter stands. I must take this man’s word, and you are at liberty to keep the fellow that deserted from us. Your boat waits, and I have the honor to bid you good-evening.” Lockyer, thus practically ordered off the ship, bowed slightly and walked rapidly down the ladder and got into his boat. Scarcely had he pushed off when Captain Bainbridge’s boat appeared, and in a few minutes he stepped on deck. “Anything happened, Mr. Decatur?” he asked, as soon as he caught sight of his young first lieutenant. Decatur told him briefly what had occurred. When he finished, Captain Bainbridge, who was a tall, powerful man, gave him a thwack upon the shoulder that nearly knocked him down. “Good for you!” he cried. “You boy officers have as much sense as we oldsters. I would not take a year’s pay for what has happened this night!” Captain Bainbridge, though, had reason to be still more proud of his boy officers in what followed concerning Moriarity. The Thunderer’s people were determined to get Moriarity back, and watched their chance for days. They knew it was impossible to get him off the Essex, and their opportunity was when the man went ashore on liberty. About two weeks after this, one bright August day, Captain Bainbridge having gone ashore on official business and Decatur being again in command, he noticed a great commotion in a British boat that was pulling off toward the Thunderer. A man was struggling in the bottom of the boat, and his loud cries and fierce efforts to free himself and jump overboard were clearly heard on the Essex. Decatur, whose eyesight was wonderfully keen, called to Macdonough, who was near him: “Is not that voice Moriarity’s?” “Yes,” cried Macdonough, “and he was given liberty this morning, I happen to know.” It took Decatur but a moment to act. “Lower the second cutter!” he cried—the fastest of all the boats; “and you, Macdonough, if possible—if possible, do you hear?—reach that boat before it touches the ship, and bring me that man!” Scarcely were the words out of Decatur’s mouth before the boat began to descend from the davits, and the boat’s crew, with Danny Dixon as coxswain, dropped in her as she touched the water. Macdonough, his dark eyes blazing, and almost wild with excitement under his calm exterior, was the first man in the boat. “Give way, men!” he said, in a voice of suppressed agitation. “We must get that man, or never hold up our heads as long as we are at Gibraltar.” The men gave way with a will and a cheer, and Macdonough, in the stern sheets, steered straight for the Thunderer’s boat. The British tars, realizing what was up, bent to their oars and dashed the diamond spray in showers around them. Both were about evenly matched, and the question was whether the Americans could reach the British boat before she got under the lee of the ship—and then, whether Moriarity could be recaptured. The American sailors, their oars flashing with the steadiness and precision of a machine, were gaining a little on the British boat; but it was plain, if they could intercept it at all, it would be directly under the quarter of the great line-of-battle ship. Several officers were in the Thunderer’s boat, and Macdonough recognized among them Lockyer, the insolent lieutenant. Moriarity, completely overpowered, lay handcuffed in the bows of the boat. Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, watched the two cutters speeding across the dazzling blue of the harbor with an intensity as if his life depended on it. He had instantly chosen Macdonough to represent the Essex, and said to himself, involuntarily: “If any one can do it, it is Macdonough. He is like Somers, quiet and determined. He can’t—he sha’n’t fail!” His excitement was shared by every officer and man on the Essex, and also on the Thunderer. Cries and cheers were heard from each ship. At last, as the two boats neared each other, Macdonough, motioning to Danny Dixon, gave him the tiller and took a place in the bow of the cutter. He spoke a word to the men, and they, as if they had reserved the strength in their brawny arms for a final effort, laid to their oars so that the boat fairly flew across the water, and in two minutes she had closed up on the bow of the British boat. As quick as a flash, Macdonough, who was a tall fellow, leaned forward, and, catching Moriarity by the waistband of his trousers, lifted him bodily into the American boat. In the suddenness of the movement not one of the dozen oars raised to strike Macdonough touched, and in another moment the Americans had sheered off, and the men were cheering wildly, while they still worked their oars sturdily. Lockyer, standing up in the British boat, shouted: “The Thunderer will blow you out of the water for that!” “No doubt she is fully able to do it,” cried Macdonough in reply; “but we will never give up this man as long as our ship will float!” Decatur, on the deck of the Essex, fairly jumped with delight. “Somers—Somers,” he cried to himself, without knowing what he was saying, “I knew that brave young Macdonough was like you!” Cheers resounded. The American tars, gathered on the fok’sl, danced with delight. The Thunderer’s boat had made some effort to follow the American, but the latter had come about so quickly that she gained too long a lead to be overtaken, and after a few minutes her adversary sullenly put about and returned to the Thunderer. The Americans did not relax their efforts, though, and in a little while were landed on the Essex’s deck. Decatur embraced Macdonough and fairly kissed him, much to Macdonough’s embarrassment. “You remind me of the most gallant fellow that lives—Dick Somers!” cried Decatur, “and that’s praise enough for any man. Send the armorer here to take Moriarity’s handcuffs off.” “Av ye plaze, sorr,” said Moriarity, “maybe it ’ud be safer to keep the bracelets on, and to give me a pair o’ leg irons to decorate me legs wid; for I shall be axin’ for liberty, sure, if I’m ’lowed around, and then I’ll be captured by thim Johnny Bulls. So, av ye plaze, sorr, put me in double irons while we’re in port, and that’s the only way to kape me from gittin’ into a peck o’ trouble agin, sorr.” “You’ll not be put in irons, but you’ll get no more liberty while you’re at Gibraltar,” answered Decatur, laughing. “Thanky, sorr,” responded Moriarity. “If ye’ll kape to that, maybe I can do widout the double irons.” When Captain Bainbridge came on board, Decatur eagerly told him of Macdonough’s gallant exploit, and the captain’s delight was unbounded. “By heavens!” he chuckled, “these boy officers of mine manage to do something handsome every time I leave them to themselves. If I stayed on shore altogether, I believe they’d lick everything in sight, in one way or another!” Several weeks had now passed, and, owing to the slowness of communication from home, no official declaration of war had reached them. The squadron cruised about the Mediterranean, giving convoy, and ready to begin active hostilities as soon as called upon. The Tripolitan pirates were still at work, whenever they dared, but the watchful energy of the American squadron kept them from doing much harm. Meanwhile the Boston was cruising over the same ground; but whenever the squadron put into port, either the Boston had just left, or she arrived just as the squadron disappeared. This was very exasperating to Commodore Dale; but as Captain NcNeill was ostensibly in hot pursuit of the squadron, and always had some plausible excuse for not falling in with it, the commodore could do nothing but leave peremptory orders behind him and in advance of him, which invariably reached Captain McNeill just a little too late or too early. It was a cruel disappointment to both Decatur and Somers, who had expected to be almost as much together as if on the same ship. When they had been thus dodging each other for months, Decatur found at Messina, where the Essex touched, the following letter from Somers:
Here a break occurred, and the letter was continued on the next page:
The Enterprise capturing the Tripolitan pirate. Here came another break, and a new date.
Many letters passed between the two friends, but they did not once meet during the whole cruise. Captain McNeill, true to his intention, never allowed himself to be overhauled by his superior officer, and at the end of two years returned to the United States without ever having seen the flagship of the squadron to which he was attached. He had done good work, though, and so the authorities winked at his odd cruise, and the brave old captain enjoyed his triumph. |
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