“Yes,” cried Jonathan; “that greenhorn, standing there by the Commodore, is sailing under false colours; he's an impostor, I say; he wears my crown.”
“[…] I say, Jonathan, my lad, don’t pipe your eye now about the loss of your crown; for, look you, we all wear crowns, from our cradles to our graves, and though indouble-darbies in thebrig, the Commodore himself can’tunking us.”