had something to say'to me; in fact, he had prepared a treat without my knowing it.
"How did you sleep last night, Sir Hurricane?" said the artful Ned. ᾿
"Why, preey well; considering," said the admiral, "I was not tormented by that old tom cat. D—n me, Sir, that fellow was like the Grand Signior, and he kept his seraglio in the garret, over my bed-room, instead of being at his post in the kitchen, killing the rats that are running about like coach-horses."
"Sir Hurricane," said I, "it's always unlucky to sailors, if they meddle with cats. You will have a gale of wind, in some shape or another, before long."
These words were hardly uttered, when, as if by preconcerted arrangement, the door opened, and in sailed Mrs. Jellybag, the housekeeper, an elderly woman, somewhere in the latitude of fifty-five or sixty years. With a low courtesy and contemptuous toss of her head, she addressed Sir Hurricane Humbug.
