hile he held the match to his pipe.

"It vas about a green thing," came a sleepy Dutch voice from a bunk.

"Oh, a Leprachaun, you mane. Sure, me mother's sister had one down in
Connaught."

"Vat vas it like?" asked the dreamy Dutch voice--a voice seemingly
possessed by the calm that had made the sea like a mirror for the last
three days, reducing the whole ship's company meanwhile to the level of
wasters.

"Like? Sure, it was like a Leprachaun; and what else would it be like?"

"What like vas that?" persisted the voice.

"It was like a little man no bigger than a big forked radish, an' as
green as a cabbidge. Me a'nt had one in her house down in Connaught in
the ould days. O musha! musha! the ould days, the ould days! Now, you
may b'lave me or b'lave me not, but you could have put him in your
pocket, and the grass-green head of him wouldn't more than'v stuck out.
She kept him in a cupboard, and out of the cupboard he'd pop if it was
a crack open, an' into the milk pans he'd be, or under the beds, or
pullin' the stool from under you, or at some other divarsion. He'd
chase the pig--the crathur!--till it'd be all ribs like an ould
umbrilla with the fright, an' as thin as a greyhound with the runnin'
by the marnin; he'd addle the eggs so the cocks an' hens wouldn't know
what they wis afther wid the chickens comin' out wid two heads on them,
an' twinty-seven legs fore and aft. And you'd start to chase him, an'
then it'd be main-sail haul, and away he'd go, you behint him, till
you'd landed tail over snout in a ditch, an' he'd be back in the
cupboard."

"He was a Troll," murmured the Dutch voice.

"I'm tellin' you he was a Leprachaun, and there's no knowin' the
divilments he'd be up to. He'd pull the cabbidge, maybe, out of the pot
boilin' on the fire forenint your eyes, and baste you in the face with
it; and thin, maybe, you'd hold out your fist to him, and he'd put a
goulden soverin in it."

"Wisht he was here!" murmured a voice from a bunk near the knightheads.

"Pawthrick," drawled the voice from the hammock above, "what'd you do
first if you found y'self with twenty pound in your pocket?"

"What's the use of askin' me?" replied Mr Button. "What's the use of
twenty pound to a sayman at say, where the grog's all wather an' the
beef's all horse? Gimme it ashore, an' you'd see what I'd do wid it!"

"I guess the nearest grog-shop keeper wouldn't see you comin' for
dust," said a voice from Ohio.

"He would not,