"
"Why, what a changeable rose you are, Master Cringle," said Captain
Transom, good--naturedly; "your face was like the north--west moon in a
fog but a minute ago, and now it is as pale as a lily@blue white, I
declare. Why, my man, you must be ill, and seriously too."
His voice dissipated the hideous chimera--the folds fell, and relapsed
into their own shape, and the cloak was once more a cloak, and nothing
more--I drew a long breath. "Ah, it is gone at last, thank God!"--and
then aware of the strange effect my unaccountable incoherence must have
had on the skipper, I thought to brazen it out by trying the free and
easy line, which was neither more nor less than arrant impertinence in
our relative positions. "Why, I have been heated a little, and amusing
myself with sundry vain imaginings, but allow me to take wine with you,
Captain," filling a tumbler with vinde--grave to the brim, as I spoke.
"Success to you, sir--here's to your speedy promotion--may you soon get a
crack frigate; as for me I intend to be Archbishop of Canterbury, or maid
of honour to the Queen of Sheba, or something in the heathen mythology."
I drank off the wine, although I had the greatest difficulty in steadying
my trembling hand, and carrying it to my lips; but notwithstanding my
increasing giddiness, and the buzzing in my ears, and swimming of mine
eyes, I noticed the Captain's face of amazement as he exclaimed, "The boy
is either mad or drunk, by Jupiter!"
I could not stand his searching and angry look, and in turning my eye, it
again fell on the cloak, which now seemed to be stretched out at greater
length, and to be altogether more voluminous than it was before.
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