ays, that'll be your best friends. The
cook tells me the captain's as dacent a man as iver he served with, so
you might aisy do worse, and are not likely to do better. Are ye hid
now? Whisht! Whisht!"

I heard most of this through a lifted corner of the tarpaulin, under
which I had the good luck to secrete myself without observation and
without difficulty. In the same manner I became witness to the admirable
air of indifference with which Biddy was mixing herself a cup of coffee
as the watchman approached. I say _mixing_ advisedly, for as he came up
she was conspicuously pouring some of the contents of the stone bottle
into her cup. Whether this drew the watchman's attention in an unusual
degree, of course I do not know, but he stopped to say, "Good-evening,
Biddy."

"Good-evening to ye, me dear, and a nasty damp evening it is."

"You're taking something to keep the damp out, I see, missus."

"I am, dear; but it's not for a foine milithrary-looking man like
yourself to be having the laugh at a poor old craythur with nothin' but
the wind and weather in her bones."

"The wind and weather get into my bones, I can tell you," said the
watchman; "and I begin my work in the fog just when you're getting out
of it."

"And that's thrue, worse luck. Take a dhrop of coffee, allanna, before I
lave ye."

"No, thank ye, missus; I've just had my supper."

"And would that privint ye from takin' the cup I'd be offering ye, wid a
taste of somethin' in it against the damps, barrin' the bottle was
empty?"

"Well, I'm not particular--as you are so pressing. Thank ye, mum; here's
your good health."

I heard the watchman say this, though at the moment I dared not peep,
and then I heard him cough.

"My sakes, Biddy, you make your--coffee--strong."

"Strong, darlin'? It's pure, ye mane. It's the rale craythur, that, and
bedad! there's a dhrop or two left that's not worth the removing, and
we'll share it anyhow. Here's to them that's far--r away."

"Thank you, thank you, woman."

"Thim that's _near_, and thim that's far away!" said Biddy, improving
upon her toast.

There was a pause. I could hear the old woman packing up her traps, and
then the man (upon whom the coffee and whisky seemed to produce a
roughening rather than a soothing effect) said coarsely, "You're a rum
lot, you Irish!"

"We are, dear," replied Biddy, blandly; "and that's why we'd be comin'
all the way to Lancashire for the improvement of our manners." And s