It was now ten years since he ought to have been a lieutenant, having once actually outranked Cuffe, in the way of date of service at least; and his conscience told him two things quite distinctly: first, the fact of his long and weary probation; second, that it was, in a great degree, his own fault.
"I love His Majesty, sir," Clinch observed, after giving a gulp, "and I never lay anything that goes hard with myself to his account.

Still, memory will be memory; and spite of all I can do, sir, I sometimes remember what I _might_ have been, as well as what I _am_.

If his Majesty _does_ feed me, it is with the spoon of a master's mate; and if he _does_ lodge me, it is in the cockpit." "I have been your shipmate often, and for years at a time," answered Cuffe good-naturedly, though a little in the manner of a superior; "and no one knows your history better.

It is not your friends who have failed you at need, so much as a certain enemy, with whom you will insist on associating, though he harms them most who love him best." "Aye, aye, sir--that can't be denied, Captain Cuffe; yet it's a hard life that passes altogether without hope." This was uttered with an expression of melancholy that said more for Clinch's character than Cuffe had witnessed in the man for years, and it revived many early impressions in his favor.

Clinch and he had once been messmates, even; and though years of a decided disparity in rank had since interposed their barrier of etiquette and feeling, Cuffe never could entirely forget the circumstance.
"It is hard, indeed, to live as you say, without hope," returned the captain; "but hope _ought_ to be the last thing to die.