There's a few glasses of grog going, a little noisy, rattling talk, a few smiles and a saucy answer or two from the girl, a look at the last newspaper, or a bit of the town news from the landlord; he's always time to read.

Hang him--I mean confound him--for he's generally a sly old spider who sucks us fellows pretty dry, and then don't care what becomes of us.

Well, it don't amount to much, but it's life--the only taste of it that chaps like us are likely to get.

And people may talk as much as they like; boys, and men too, will like it, and take to it, and hanker after it, as long as the world lasts.

There's danger in it, and misery, and death often enough comes of it, but what of that?
If a man wants a swim on the seashore he won't stand all day on the beach because he may be drowned or snapped up by a shark, or knocked against a rock, or tired out and drawn under by the surf.