e as well as his
veins, and I don't think many of the company heard this too accurate
summary of the situation. The boatswain did, but before he could speak,
Dennis O'Moore had sprung to the ground between them, and laying the
fiddle over his shoulder played a wild sort of jig that most effectually
and unceremoniously drowned the rest of the song, and diverted the
attention of the men.

"The fiddle's an old friend, so the bo'sun tells me," he said, nodding
towards the faces that turned to him.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Why, I'm blessed if it isn't Sambo's old thing."

"It's your honour knows how to bring the heart out of it, anyhow."

"My eyes, Pat! You should ha' heerd it at the dignity ball we went
ashore for at Barbadoes. Did you ever foot the floor with a black
washerwoman of eighteen stun, dressed out in muslin the colour of orange
marmalade, and white kid shoes?"

"I did not, the darlin'!"

As the circle gossiped, Dennis tuned the fiddle, talking vehemently to
the boatswain between whiles.

"Bo'sun! ye're not to say a word to the boy. (Sit down, Alister, I tell
ye!) I ask it as a favour. He didn't mince matters, I'll allow, but it
was GOD'S truth, and no less, that he spoke. Come, bo'sun, who's a
better judge of manners than yourself? We'd had enough and to spare of
that, (Will ye keep quiet, ye cantankerous Scotchman! Who's harming ye
now? Jack, if ye move an inch, I'll break this fiddle over your head.)
Bo'sun! we're perishing for our grog, are ye aware?"

The diversion was successful. The boatswain, with a few indignant
mutterings, devoted himself to doling out the tots of grog, and then
proposed Dennis O'Moore's health in a speech full of his own style of
humour, which raised loud applause; Dennis commenting freely on the
text, and filling up awkward pauses with flourishes on Sambo's fiddle.
The boatswain's final suggestion that the ship's guest should return
thanks by a song, instead of a sentiment, was received with
acclamations, during which he sat down, after casting a mischievous
glance at Dennis, who was once more blushing and fidgeting with shyness.

"Ye've taken your revenge, bo'sun," said he.

"Them that blames should do better, sir," replied the boatswain, folding
his arms.

"A song! a song! Mr. O'Moore!" shouted the men.

"I only know a few old Irish songs," pleaded Dennis.

"Ould Ireland for ever!" cried Pat Shaughnessy.

"Hear! hear! Encore, Pat!" roared the men. They were still laugh