of holes."

"What's th' use av ye talking like a fool?" said Chips. "Is shootin' up a
feller a-goin' to undo a wrong like that? Th' shootin' was all done on
th' other side, an' Andrews is sound yet an' aboard this here ship. Some
men think av other things besides revenge. Especially kind-hearted
fellers like Jameson what niver cud hurt no one. As soon as some av
Jameson's friends who knew of th' affair told his wife, she wint right
into th' cabin where Andrews was, an' afore he knew what she ware up to,
she had shot herself. Andrews paid her funeral expenses, an' buried her
in th' little Dago cemetery out forninst th' city gate. An' thin Garnett,
who didn't know av his skipper's diviltry, sware vengeance on th' husband
who deserted her, fer she ware gentil and kind wid th' men forrads."

Here Chips paused and gave me a sidelong look as he refilled his pipe.
Then he lit it and smiled hopefully.

"They ware a quare pair, them mates, Garnett an' O'Toole," he said. "What
one wasn't th' other was, and _wice wersa_. They lay there two months
loadin' on account o' th' war having blocked th' nitrate beds.

"Wan day O'Toole saw an old woman come limpin' along th' dock where th'
_Starbuck_ lay. She hobbled on to th' gang-plank an' started aboard, an'
O'Toole began to chaff Garnett. He waren't half bad as a joker.

"''Pon me whurd, Garnett,' sez he, 'I do belave your own mother is comin'
aboard to visit ye--but no, maybe it's yer swateheart, fer ye have an
uncommon quare taste, ye know. B' th' saints, ye ware always a bold one
fer th' ladies.'

"We ware lying in th' next berth, not twenty feet away, an' from where I
sat on th' rail I cud hear thim talk an' see what was a-goin' on.

"'Stave me,' says old Garnett, solemn like, 'that's true enough. Sink her
fer a fool, though, to be a-comin' down here to win back an old
windjammer like me--What? ye mean that old hag driftin' along the deck?
Blast you for a red-headed shell-back, d'ye s'pose I'd take up wid wimmen
av your choice? No, I never makes a superior officer jealous;' an' wid
that he takes out his rag an' mops th' dent in th' top av his head where
there's no hair nor nothin' but grease, an' he draws out his little
pestiverous vial av peppermint salts an' sniffs.

"'Faith, an' ye'll need to clear yer old head, ye owld raskil, ye've been
too gay fer onct,' says O'Toole.

"She ware a tough-lookin' old gal, an' her hat brim flopped over her
face. O'Toole met her an' point