against me, and a black mark be set before my name for ever!”

“Don’t you fear, Tom,” said I cheerfully, “you’ll pass muster with flying colours!”

Well, the admiral came on board and the inspection turned out just as I expected.

Not only was the gallant chief satisfied with the condition of the Porpoise; but, after having mustered the men at quarters, and having them exercised at gun-drill and cutlasses, he was so pleased that he publicly complimented Tom Finch on the state of his ship and crew, saying that they were not only creditable to him, but to the service generally.

So far, so good.

When the admiral, however, descended presently to Tom’s cabin to sign papers, and perhaps to give a look around him, too, to see how such an efficient officer comported himself when “at home” so to speak, Tom’s evil genius placed Master Jocko in the way.

There he was, seated on the sofa, dressed up in some nondescript sort of uniform with which the youngsters had invested him during Tom’s absence on deck—the young imps were always up to some of their larks—and being of a kindred disposition himself, Tom was never hard on them for their tricks.

The monkey had on a blue coat and trousers with a red sash across his chest and a Turkish fez on his head, which gave him the appearance of one of the many Chilian field marshals, and generals, and colonels whom we had seen at Valparaiso, his wizened, dried-up face adding to the delusion.

As luck would have it, too, what should Jocko do, as the admiral and Tom entered the cabin, but rise from the sofa; and taking off the cap from his head with one of his paws, while the other was laid deferentially on his chest, he made a most polite bow, in the manner he had always been used to do, when either of us greeted him on coming in.

“Who’s this gentleman?” said the admiral pleasantly, taking off his cocked hat likewise, and returning the salute—“I suppose someone you’ve given a passage to on the way, eh?”

Tom was at his wit’s end, as he told me afterwards, for the moment; but his native “nous” came to the rescue, and, combined with his love of a practical joke, suggested a loophole of escape.

“Oh, sir,” said he, “this is one of the aides-de-camp of the Chilian generalissimo, a Señor Carrambo, who begged me to land him at Callao on some urgent private business. Of course, I know, sir, of the hostilities between his native state and Peru, and that as a neutral I ought not to offer any means of communication between the two powers; but, sir, as you see for yourself, he’s a very harmless sort of fellow, and—”

“Hush!” said the admiral, apparently shocked at Tom’s speaking out in such an off-hand way his opinion of the foreign gentleman, as he took Jocko to be.

“Oh, bless you,” went on Tom, forgetting for the moment to whom he was speaking—“he cannot understand a word of English, and I can’t make out a single word of his Chilian Spanish—but he’s very polite.”

“So I see,” replied the admiral affably, as master Jocko made another obeisance at this juncture; “pray ask him to accompany you on board the flagship with me to dinner. Tell him I shall feel honoured by his company, as indeed I shall be by yours.”

To say he was thunderstruck at the admiral’s request would not convey the slightest idea of Tom’s mental condition when he found himself in such a dilemma. He could have bitten off his tongue for its having got him into such a scrape, by telling the fib about the monkey in the first instance; but it was too late now, for the admiral had turned to leave the cabin, and the marine was at the door, besides others, who would hear any explanation he might make.

Tom determined, therefore, with a courage that was almost heroic, to carry the thing through to the bitter end—giving me a pathetic wink to instruct everybody to “keep the thing dark” on board—for none knew about Jocko excepting our ship’s company.

Furtively shoving the fez down over the monkey’s head, so that it almost concealed its features, he threw the boat-cloak that rested on the sofa around him; and, taking hold of his paw, marched in the admiral’s wake to the gangway, and thence down into the chief’s barge alongside, where the admiral and he and Jocko took their seats in state in the stern-sheets and were rowed off to the flagship—our crew manning the rigging as they left and giving three hearty cheers!

“I like to see that proof of affection in your men,” said the admiral, as he witnessed this unofficial performance. “They are proud of their commander, and, I am sure, you have a crew to be proud of!”

Tom bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment. He knew well enough what had occasioned the enthusiasm of the blue-jackets, and bit his lips to restrain his laughter, which so suffocated him that he felt he would burst if he had to keep it in much longer!

All he could do now was to brazen out the imposture, and he huddled the boat-cloak round Jocko so as to conceal his form.

“Poor Señor Carrambo is suffering fearfully from the ague,” he said in explanation to the admiral of this little attention on his part—“I’m afraid he should not have ventured out of the cabin.”

“A good glass of sherry will soon warm him,” said the admiral smiling, “and I think I shall be able to offer him one.”

“He’s rather partial to bottled ale or stout,” suggested Tom, “and he may possibly prefer that.”

“Rather a queer taste for a Spaniard,” said the admiral, as the barge reached the side of the flagship; “but I think I can also gratify on board my ship this predilection of Señor—”

“Carrambo,” prompted Tom.

“Yes, Carrambo,” added the admiral as he mounted the accommodation ladder of the flagship—Tom Finch with Jocko on his arm following in his wake, as before, amidst the mutual salutes of the admiral and the officers, to the state cabin of the chief.

Seated at the dinner-table, to which all were summoned with all proper ceremony to the exhilarating tune of the “Roast beef of old England,” Jocko, who had a chair alongside of Tom, behaved with the utmost decorum.

He indeed appeared to eat little but bread, biscuit, tart, and fruit; but, beyond a grimace, which must have caused the admiral to reflect that of all the ugly persons he ever beheld in his life, this Chilian officer was certainly the ugliest, nothing particularly happened, and the dinner passed off without an exposure.

Tom, the admiral observed, frequently helped “the generalissimo’s aide-de-camp,” especially in pouring out his wine, which he limited in a marked degree; but the jocular lieutenant-commander passed this off by saying that his distinguished friend—whom he exchanged a word with occasionally, of some outlandish language, a mixture of Spanish and High Dutch, with a sprinkling of the Chinese tongue—was in the most feeble health and acting under the doctor’s directions regarding his diet:— that was the reason also, he explained, of his remaining cloaked and with his head-covering on at the admiral’s table, for which he craved a thousand pardons!

After dinner, Tom would have given worlds to have beaten a retreat to his own ship, as several officers came into the saloon while coffee was handed round, and he dreaded each moment that Jocko would disgrace himself and the bubble would burst; but no, there the admiral, would keep him, talking all the time, and directing most of his attention towards the pseudo “Señor Carrambo,” for whose benefit Tom had to translate, or pretend to translate, what was said.

Tom said he never got so punished for a joke in his life before, and he took very good care not to let his sense of the ridiculous put him in such a plight again, as for more than two mortal hours he suffered all the tortures of a condemned criminal; as he said, he would rather have been shot at once!

But