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“And I’m a-thinkin’, mates,” remarked Bill Green, in the confidence of the foks’l, “as how we’ve got a leftenant as is a seaman; I seen it by the cut o’ his jib; and if he was the cap’n o’ this ’ere ship, he’d lock yardarms with a Britisher if he had half a chance.”

One day, in the midst of the bustle of fitting the ship out, Commodore Hopkins, who was to command the little squadron, came on board the Alfred. He was formally received at the gangway by Paul Jones and shown over the ship by him.

The commodore was a big, burly man, who had spent the best part of his life at sea. He examined the ship carefully, and his silence, as Paul Jones explained what he had done and was doing with the means at his command, made the young lieutenant fear that it had not met with the commodore’s approval. But, secure in the consciousness that he had done his duty, Paul Jones could afford to do without the praise of his superiors. He was not, however, destined to this mortification. Standing on the quarter-deck, surrounded by the officers, Commodore Hopkins turned to Paul Jones, and said: