le over spelling. "I never
seed it like that," said one, squinting over Billy's slate, "and I don't
believe nobody else ever did neither." "For the love of Mike," roared
another, "let's stick to them words we're all agreed on, and keep off of
that thorological grass!" "Man and boy, I've been to sea this thirty
years," exclaimed Mr. Bob with crushing vehemence, "and there warn't no
T in Christmas then, and there ain't now! C-R-I-S-S-M-A-S, you
son of a sea cook, and I know _h_every letter of it like the palm of me
'and!"

In a corner, dispassionately aloof from all the bustle and argument,
Papa Benson, that venerable dandy of the pink pajamas, pumped up the
concertina, and drew melodiously on his ancient repertoire. To the
inspiring strains of "In Her Hair She Wore a White Camellia," "Oh,
Buffalo Gals, Won't You Come Out To-night?" and the "Mulligatawny
Guards," the good work progressed with sailorlike speed and system. The
bare, dreary room grew gay with greenery. Stitched to the matting walls
with sinnet there appeared letters, words, and finally complete
inscriptions: PEAS ON ERTH AND GOODWILL TOWARDS MAN; DAISY
KIRKE, THE SEAMAN'S STAR; MERRY CRISSMAS, and GOD BLESS OUR HOM.

Daisy clapped her hands with delight, and did not stint her praise or
approval. Occasionally she would stand up on the "bridge" to anxiously
point out a crooked letter, or call attention to a doubtful spelling;
and her little heart overflowed with satisfaction at the brisk "Aye,
aye, Miss!" that greeted her smallest criticism. Mr. Bob worked like a
horse, and not only made things jump, but kept a sharp watch as well on
the unguarded utterances of his mates. Once, at some remark of Mr.
Tod's, he flared up like a lion, and stepping close to Mr. Tod, with
his fist clenched, said, "Drop that, Toddy--d'ye 'ear--drop it!" and
stared at him so fierce and splendid, that Mr. Tod fell back and mumbled
something about "No offense," and "It kinder ripped out unbeknownst,
Bob, old cock!"

By the time it was all finished dusk was falling. The room had been
beautifully swept out, and likewise the porch, and Mr. Bell was in the
act of dancing a fascinating clog to Papa Benson's "Soldier's Joy" on
the concertina, when Nantok rushed in, shouting that Mr. Kirke was
coming. And, indeed, she had no sooner given the news than it was
confirmed by the whaler's crew, whose voices could be heard far across
the water, lustily singing at their paddles.

A sort of cons