TOM GROG.

Present—Tom Grog and Rupee.

Rupee. I drink tea at Sir Toby Tacit’s this evening. Tom, you’ll come—I’ll introduce you to the ladies; you’ll see my intended sposa, Cornelia.

Grog. Ay, give me her little waiting-maid, Nancy. If I can get her to my berth in the Minories, I shall be as happy as an Admiral.

Rupee. Admiral! apropos—I shall be married to-morrow—Tom, you’ll dress to honour my wedding?

Grog. Ay, if the tailor brings home my new rigging. But now you talk of a wife, the first time I ever saw my wife, the pretty Peggy, was on Portsmouth ramparts, full dress’d, streamers flying, gay as a commissioner’s yacht at a naval review—What cheer, my heart! says I—she bore away; love gave signal for chase, so I crowded sail, threw a salute shot across her fore-foot to make her bring-to; prepared for an engagement, we came to close quarters, grappled. I threw a volley of kisses at her round-top, she struck—next day, with a cheer, I took my prize in tow to Farum Church, and the parson made out my warrant for command—captain of the Pretty Peggy fifteen years; then she foundered in Blanket Bay—Death took charge, and left me to swim thro’ life, and keep my chin above water as long as I cou’d.

Rupee. Tom, you may be chin-deep, but water can never reach your lips unless mixed with brandy—brandy! apropos, now for the ladies.

Grog. Well, sheer off; d’ye see, I have business at the Admiralty, and then I bear away for Tower Hill, to meet some Hearts of Oak.

Rupee. Adieu, my Man of War; my vis-a-vis is at St. James’ Gate, so, Tom, farewell; and now, hey for the land of love. [Exit.

Grog. Now must I cruise in the channel of Charing Cross, to look out for this lubber that affronted me aboard the Dreadnought. I heard he put in at the Admiralty—Hold! is Rupee gone? If he thought I went to fight, mayhap he’d bring the Master-at-Arms upon me, and have me in the bilboes—Smite my timbers! there goes the enemy.

Enter Stern (crossing).

I’ll hail him—yo! ho!

Stern. What cheer?

Grog. You’re Sam Stern?

Stern. Yes.

Grog. Do you remember me?

Stern. Remember! Yes, though you’re rich now, you’re still Tom Grog.

Grog. You affronted me aboard the Dreadnought; the Spaniards were then in view, and I didn’t think it time to resent private quarrels when it is our duty to thrash the enemies of our country; but, Sam Stern, you are the man that affronted Tom Grog.

Stern. Mayhap so.

Grog. Mayhap you’ll fight me?

“WHAT CHEER?”

Stern. I will—when and where?

Grog. The where is here, and when is now; and slap’s the word. (Lays his hand on his hanger.) But hold, we must steer off the open sea into some creek.

Stern. But I’ve neither cutlash nor pistols.

Grog. I saw a handsome cutlash and a pretty pair of barking-irons in a pawnbroker’s window; come, it lies on our way to the War Office.

Stern. I should like to touch at the Victualling Office in our voyage.

Grog. Why, ha’n’t you dined?

Stern. I’ve none to eat.

Grog. A seaman in England without a dinner! that’s hard, d—d hard! there’s money—pay me when you can. (Gives a handful of money.)

Stern. How much?

Grog. I don’t know—get your dinner—buy the arms—meet me in two hours at Deptford, and, shiver me like a biscuit, if I don’t blow your head off.

Stern. Then I can’t pay you your money.

Grog. True; but mayhap you may take off mine; and if so, I shall have no occasion for it.

Stern. Right, I forgot that.

(Wipes his eyes with his sleeve.)

Grog. What do you snivel for?

Stern. What a dog am I to use a man ill, and now be obliged to him for a meal’s meat.

Grog. Then you own you’ve used me ill! Ask my pardon.

Stern. I’ll be d—d if I do.

Grog. Then take it without asking. You’re cursed saucy, but you’re a good seaman; and hark ye, Sam, the brave man, though he scorns the fear of punishment, is always afraid to deserve it. Come, when you’ve stowed your bread-room, a bowl of punch shall again set friendship afloat. (Shake hands.)

Stern. Oh, I’m a lubber!

Grog. Avast! Swab the spray from your bows! poor fellow! don’t heed, my soul! whilst you’ve the heart of a lion, never be ashamed of the feelings of a man.

John O’Keeffe.