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Updated: May 4, 2025
The master took charge of the frigate. Suppose us all seated at the long table, chequered red and blue, with Major Flushfire, the officer in command of the garrison, at the top of the table, all scarlet and gold, and our own dear Dr Thompson, all scarlet and blue, at the bottom. These two gentlemen were wonderfully alike.
"Ay, certainly it was Greek to Mr Smallcoates," muttered Thompson. "To be sure it was," said the innocent marine. "Major Flushfire," continued he, once more upon his legs, "may I again entreat the honour of your attention.
I mean the night draught through the window." "The best way to dispose of it," said the purser, nodding at the melting Galen. "No," replied Major Flushfire, courteously, "there's no danger in it at all I like it." "Bless me, major," said the marine, "why it comes all in gusts." "Like it all the better," rejoined the major, with his head again half buried in the sangaree glass.
Our first-lieutenant of marines rises, and, like conscience, "with a still small voice," thus delivers himself of the anxiety with which his breast was labouring. "Major Flushfire, may I claim the privilege of the similar colour of our cloth to entreat the favour of your attention?
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