Good bye, old bloak--I'll leave you to repent,
and when old grim death comes yard-arm and yard-arm with you, and you
can't shake off his boarding-tackle, you'll say, 'Where's Jack Pringle?' says you; and then what's his mane--oh ah! echo you call it--echo'll
say, it's d----d if it knows." Jack turned upon his heel, and, before the admiral could make any reply
he left the place. "What's the rascal up to now?" said the admiral. "I really didn't think
he'd have taken me at my word." "Oh, then, after all, you didn't mean it, uncle?" said Charles. "What's that to you, you lubber, whether I mean it, or not, you
shore-going squab? Of course I expect everybody to desert an old hulk,
rats and all--and now Jack Pringle's gone; the vagabond, couldn't he
stay, and get drunk as long as he liked! Didn't he say what he pleased,
and do what he pleased, the mutinous thief? Didn't he say I run away
from a Frenchman off Cape Ushant, and didn't I put up with that?" "But, my dear uncle, you sent him away yourself." "I didn't, and you know I didn't; but I see how it is, you've disgusted
Jack among you. A better seaman never trod the deck of a man-of-war." "But his drunkenness, uncle?" "It's a lie. I don't believe he ever got drunk. I believe you all
invented it, and Jack's so good-natured, he tumbled about just to keep
you in countenance." "But his insolence, uncle; his gross insolence towards you--his
inventions, his exaggerations of the truth?" "Avast, there--avast, there--none of that, Master Charlie; Jack couldn't
do anything of the sort; and I means to say this, that if Jack was here
now, I'd stick up for him, and say he was a good seaman. "Tip us your fin, then," said Jack, darting into the room; "do you think
I'd leave you, you d----d old fool? What would become of you, I wonder,
if I wasn't to take you in to dry nurse? Why, you blessed old babby,
what do you mean by it?" "Jack, you villain!" "Ah! go on and call me a villain as much as you like. Don't you remember
when the bullets were scuttling our nobs?" "I do, I do, Jack; tip us your fin, old fellow. You've saved my life
more than once." "It's a lie." "It ain't. You did, I say." "You bed----d!" And thus was the most serious misunderstanding that these two worthies
ever had together made up. The real fact is, that the admiral could as
little do without Jack, as he could have done without food; and as for
Pringle, he no more thought of leaving the old commodore, than of--what
shall we say? forswearing him. Jack himself could not have taken a
stronger oath. But the old admiral had suffered so much from the idea that Jack had
actually left him, that although he abused him as usual often enough, he
never again talked of taking him off the ship's books; and, to the
credit of Jack be it spoken, he took no advantage of the circumstance,
and only got drunk just as usual, and called his master an old fool
whenever it suited him. CHAPTER LXXXV. THE HUNGARIAN NOBLEMAN GETS INTO DANGER.--HE IS FIRED AT, AND SHOWS SOME
OF HIS QUALITY. [Illustration]

Considerably delighted was the Hungarian, not only at the news he had
received from the boy, but as well for the cheapness of it. Probably he
did not conceive it possible that the secret of the retreat of such a
man as Varney could have been attained so easily. He waited with great impatience for the evening, and stirred not from
the inn for several hours; neither did he take any refreshment,
notwithstanding he had made so liberal an arrangement with the landlord
to be supplied. All this was a matter of great excitement and speculation in the inn, so
much so, indeed, that the landlord sent for some of the oldest customers
of his house, regular topers, who sat there every evening, indulging in
strong drinks, and pipes and tobacco, to ask their serious advice as to
what he should do, as if it were necessary he should do anything at all. But, somehow or another, these wiseacres who assembled at the landlord's
bidding, and sat down, with something strong before them, in the bar
parlour, never once seemed to think that a man might, if he choosed,
come to an inn, and agree to pay four guineas a week for board and
lodging, and yet take nothing at all. No; they could not understand it, and therefore they would not have it. It was quite monstrous that anybody should attempt to do anything so
completely out of the ordinary course of proceeding. It was not to be
borne; and as in this country it happens, free and enlightened as we
are, that no man can commit a greater social offence than doing
something that his neighbours never thought of doing themselves, the
Hungarian nobleman was voted a most dangerous character, and, in fact,
not to be put up with. "I shouldn't have thought so much of it" said the landlord; "but only
look at the aggravation of the thing. After I have asked him four
guineas a week, and expected to be beaten down to two, to be then told
that he would not have cared if it had been eight. It is enough to
aggravate a saint." "Well, I agree with you there," said another; "that's just what it is,
and I only wonder that a man of your sagacity has not quite understood
it before." "Understood what?" "Why, that he is a vampyre. He has heard of Sir Francis Varney, that's
the fact, and he's come to see him. Birds of a feather, you know, flock
together, and now we shall have two vampyres in the town instead of
one." [Illustration]

The party looked rather blank at this suggestion, which, indeed, seemed
rather uncomfortable probably. The landlord had just opened his mouth to
make some remark, when he was stopped by the violent ringing of what he
now called the vampyre's bell, since it proceeded from the room where
the Hungarian nobleman was. "Have you an almanack in the house?" was the question of the mysterious
guest. "An almanack, sir? well, I really don't know. Let me see, an almanack." "But, perhaps, you can tell me. I was to know the moon's age." "The devil!" thought the landlord; "he's a vampyre, and no mistake. Why,
sir, as to the moon's age, it was a full moon last night, very bright
and beautiful, only you could not see it for the clouds." "A full moon last night," said the mysterious guest, thoughtfully; "it
may shine, then, brightly, to-night, and if so, all will be well. I
thank you,--leave the room." "Do you mean to say, sir, you don't want anything to eat now?" "What I want I'll order." "But you have ordered nothing." "Then presume that I want nothing." The discomfited landlord was obliged to leave the room, for there was no
such a thing as making any answer to this, and so, still further
confirmed in his opinion that the stranger was a vampyre that came to
see Sir Francis Varney from a sympathetic feeling towards him, he again
reached the bar-parlour. "You may depend," he said, "as sure as eggs is eggs, that he is a
vampyre. Hilloa! he's going off,--after him--after him; he thinks we
suspect him. There he goes--down the High-street."