"Waal, my noble Britisher, what the tarnation mischief do yew mean by firin' them brass popguns of yourn at me, eh?  What right have yew to shoot at a ship flyin' the galorious Stars and Stripes?  D'ye see them handsome barkers of mine?"--pointing to a fine display of eighteen- pounders, six of a side, mounted in the ship's main-deck battery. "Waal, I was in more'n half a mind to give ye a dose from them in answer to your shot; and yew may thank my mate here, Mr Silas Jenkins, for persuadin' me outer the notion!  And what d'ye want, anyway, now that yew're here, and be hanged to ye?"