CHAPTER XXI.
PROCEEDINGS OF THE CONSUL THE order was instantly obeyed, and the sailors ranged themselves, facing the consul.
They were a wild company; men of many climes--not at all precise in their toilet arrangements, but picturesque in their very tatters.

My friend, the Long Doctor, was there too; and with a view, perhaps, of enlisting the sympathies of the consul for a gentleman in distress, had taken more than ordinary pains with his appearance.

But among the sailors, he looked like a land-crane blown off to sea, and consorting with petrels.
The forlorn Rope Yarn, however, was by far the most remarkable figure.
Land-lubber that he was, his outfit of sea-clothing had long since been confiscated; and he was now fain to go about in whatever he could pick up.

His upper garment--an unsailor-like article of dress which he persisted in wearing, though torn from his back twenty times in the day--was an old "claw-hammer jacket," or swallow-tail coat, formerly belonging to Captain Guy, and which had formed one of his perquisites when steward.
By the side of Wilson was the mate, bareheaded, his gray locks lying in rings upon his bronzed brow, and his keen eye scanning the crowd as if he knew their every thought.

His frock hung loosely, exposing his round throat, mossy chest, and short and nervous arm embossed with pugilistic bruises, and quaint with many a device in India ink.
In the midst of a portentous silence, the consul unrolled his papers, evidently intending to produce an effect by the exceeding bigness of his looks.
"Mr.Jermin, call off their names;" and he handed him a list of the ship's company.
All answered but the deserters and the two mariners at the bottom of the sea.
It was now supposed that the Round Robin would be produced, and something said about it.