JACK AND THE MUTINEERS.

“Obedience every work combines,
Diffuses to each part
That ardour which the mind refines,
Expands and mends the heart.”
Dibdin.

been a-going on for some little len’th o’ time, your honour,” said Jones. “Me and my messmates took little heed o’t for a time, thinkin’ it were only Scrivings’ bombast, ’cause ye see, sir, he’s only a blessed mouth of a fellow arter all.”

“Ha!” interrupted M?Hearty, “that fellow is one of your pressed men, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Jack; “the ringleader of the smugglers, and a bold, bad man.”

“That’s he to a T,” said Jones. “Well, they’re all in it, the twenty o’ them. I’m no sneak, and I’m no spy, but I thought it was my duty to tell your honour. They’re preaching mutiny, and they’re spreading sedition, and—and”—here Jones lost his temper, and forgot himself so far as to bring his fist down on the table with a force that made all the glasses rattle—“I’d hang the blessed lot.”

Jones was thanked, told to keep dark, and, after a stiff glass of the captain’s rum, retired. This man had done his duty.

Early next morning, Admiral Sir John was surprised to receive a visit from Captain Mackenzie.

The latter soon opened fire in true sailor fashion.

“Admiral,” he said, “I’ve come to make an exchange. I want two of your best men for two of my very bad hats.”

The admiral laughingly requested an explanation. “For,” he added, “you certainly seem to me to wish the better half of the bargain.”

Jack explained in a very few words. He desired, instead of bringing the would-be mutineers to trial, to send one or two of them to every ship in the fleet.

“’Pon honour,” said Jervis, “the plan does you credit. I’d have hanged one or two of them. But this is better—indeed it is. Well, I’ll take your two blackest hats; and I shan’t forget to mention your cleverness when I send home a despatch. Come down to breakfast.”

That very day the smugglers were scattered all over the fleet, and peace once more reigned in the Tonneraire.

In a few weeks’ time the wounded on board Jack’s ship were nearly all well; and he was not sorry when one day he was sent for by the admiral, and told that he was to proceed to sea. There were many ships, both Spanish and French, sailing to and fro on the coast carrying despatches of great importance, because they were intended to enable the enemy to complete their plans. These he was to chase, and either capture or destroy as suited him best.

Before he left on this cruise, the men and officers of the Tonneraire were delighted to receive letters from home. Jack took his little packet with a beating heart, and, retiring to his cabin, gave orders that he was not to be disturbed until he should again appear.

Ah, no one save a sailor knows the real delight experienced in receiving letters from home! And here was one in his father’s handwriting. Why, it was dated from Ireland; and that is where the general was stationed, waiting, as he said, to give a true Highland welcome to the French as soon as they should land. It said nothing about the lost estate and the bonnie house that once was their home; but it was bold and hopeful throughout. The general had heard of all Jack’s doings, and was proud of such a son. He concluded with a fatherly blessing, bidding him never forget he was a Grant Mackenzie.

Then he opened Flora’s letter. Sisterly throughout. She was as happy at Torquay as she could expect to be, but longed—oh so much—to see her dear brother once more. Then she went on to talk of old times, and how happy they would be when they were all together once again. So it concluded, without one word about Gerty.

He laid the letter down with a sigh. A strange sense of loneliness, of forsakenness, took possession of his heart. He thought he had forgotten his false love. At this moment she seemed dearer to him than ever.

He next took slowly up from the table a letter in a strange, ill-spelt, scrawly hand, and opened it mechanically. But his face brightened as he began to read. I append a portion of it with a few corrections:—

Love and sweet kisses, indeed! Jack laughed aloud. Then he read Mary’s letter all over again. Then, will it be believed? he kissed it. After this, can you credit it? he placed it in his bosom. What did Jack mean, I wonder?

The next letter was a right hearty one, from kind old Mr. Richards. There was a deal of business in it, and a deal that wasn’t; but the sentence that pleased Jack best was this: “I’m looking after Gerty. I’m saving her for you. Old Keane may sacrifice his daughter to Sir Digby, but there will be two moons in the sky that day, and another in the duck-pond. Keep up your heart, boy. I’m laying the prettiest little trap for Sir Digby ever you saw. Gee-ho! Cheerily does it.”

Cheerily did do it. All the gloom that poor Flora’s kind letter had left in Jack’s heart was banished now, and he had begun to sing.

He was leaving his room, when he ran foul of Tom Fairlie.

Tom was singing too, and smiling.

Jack pulled him right into his cabin and shut the door.

“What are you all smiles about?” said Jack.

“Why are you all smiles?” said Tom. “Had a letter from Flora?”

“Heard about Gerty?”

Then something very funny or very joyous seemed to tickle the pair of them at precisely the same moment, and they laughed aloud till all the glasses on the swing-table rang out a jingling chorus.

“I say, Tom,” said Jack at last, “I feel I can fight the French now.”

“Precisely how I feel. Ha! ha! ha!”

“Well, come and dine with me to-night—all alone.” And Tom did.