Report yourselves to the boatswain." "Begging your pardon," said I, "I have business in Ireland that presses, and--" "Hold your tongue, sir," said the officer, turning on his heel.
The land was now out of sight; the ship's course was due west; every sail was full.

The boatswain's whistle was calling to quarters.

Tim, and Miss Kit, and Fanad, and Kilgorman were part of an ended life.
There was nothing for it but to grin and bear it.
So I reported myself, and wrote my name on the books, and became a servant for life of his Majesty.
-- ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Now it is no part of my story to relate all that happened to me during the year or two that followed.

Not that it was without adventure or peril, or that it would not bear the repetition.

On the contrary, if I only knew how to write a book (which none of those who read what I have written so far would be cruel enough to impute to me), I could fill a volume with adventures which not many sea-dogs could show a match to.
But somehow those years, save in a few particulars, never seemed to rank as part of my life.