Now when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and with their
trowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily hauled
their fat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good 150 pounds
from the precious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea
with their wives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength
of their respective shares; up steps a very learned and most Christian
and charitable gentleman, with a copy of Blackstone under his arm;
and laying it upon the whale's head, he says--"Hands off! this fish,
my masters, is a Fast-Fish. I seize it as the Lord Warden's." Upon this
the poor mariners in their respectful consternation--so truly English--
knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their heads
all round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the stranger.
But that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the hard heart
of the learned gentleman with the copy of Blackstone. At length one
of them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made bold to speak,
"Please, sir, who is the Lord Warden?"
"The Duke."
"But the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish?"
"It is his."
"We have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense,
and is all that to go to the Duke's benefit; we getting nothing
at all for our pains but our blisters?"
"It is his.
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