“I do not like to sound discontented neither,' said Pullings, 'nor to crab any ship I belong to; but between you and me, Doctor, between you and me, she is more what we call a floating coffin than a ship.”

“They will not be pleased. But they know we must catch the monsoon with a well-found ship; and they know they are in the Navy--they have chosen their cake, and must lie on it.'You mean, they cannot have their bed and eat it.'No, no, it is not quite that either. I mean--I wish you would not confuse my mind, Stephen.”

“Oh, what is that bird?''It is a wheatear. We have seen between two and three hundred since we set out, and I have told you their name twice, nay, three times.”

“Why, sir," said he, looking about him, "what splendour I see: gold lace, breeches, cocked hats. Allow me to recommend a sandwich. And would you be contemplating an attack, at all?""It had crossed my mind, I must admit," said Jack. "Indeed, I may go so far as to say, that I am afraid a conflict is now virtually inevitable. Did you notice we have cleared for action?”

“Two weevils crept from the crumbs. 'You see those weevils, Stephen?' said Jack solemnly.I do.'Which would you choose?'There is not a scrap of difference. Arcades ambo. They are the same species of curculio, and there is nothing to choose between them.'But suppose you had to choose?'Then I should choose the right-hand weevil; it has a perceptible advantage in both length and breadth.'There I have you,' cried Jack. 'You are bit - you are completely dished. Don't you know that in the Navy you must always choose the lesser of two weevils? Oh ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Oh well,' said Jack: and then, 'Did you ever meet Bach?''Which Bach?''London Bach.''Not I.''I did. He wrote some pieces for my uncle Fisher, and his young man copied them out fair. But they were lost years and years ago, so last time I was in town I went to see whether I could find the originals: the young man has set up on his own, having inherited his master's music-library. We searched through the papers — such a disorder you would hardly credit, and I had always supposed publishers were as neat as bees — we searched for hours, and no uncle's pieces did we find. But the whole point is this: Bach had a father.''Heavens, Jack, what things you tell me. Yet upon recollection I seem to have known other men in much the same case.''And this father, this old Bach, you understand me, had written piles and piles of musical scores in the pantry.''A whimsical place to compose in, perhaps; but then birds sing in trees, do they not? Why not antediluvian Germans in a pantry?''I mean the piles were kept in the pantry. Mice and blackbeetles and cook-maids had played Old Harry with some cantatas and a vast great passion according to St Mark, in High Dutch; but lower down all was well, and I brought away several pieces, 'cello for you, fiddle for me, and some for both together. It is strange stuff, fugues and suites of the last age, crabbed and knotted sometimes and not at all in the modern taste, but I do assure you, Stephen, there is meat in it. I have tried this partita in C a good many times, and the argument goes so deep, so close and deep, that I scarcely follow it yet, let alone make it sing. How I should love to hear it played really well — to hear Viotti dashing away.”

“I am in favour of leaving people alone, however imperfect their polity may seem. It appears to me that you must not tell other nations how to set their house in order; nor must you compel them to be happy.”