nd?"

"Just one, boy; just one."

"What was he?"

"A big chap, six feet six, if an inch, and ter'ble strong; and a fist
at him like a sledge; and a rough enough divil, too, and ye darn'
spit afore him; but quiet for all--aw, yes, wonderful quiet."

"Who was he, Davy?"

"A widda man these teens of years."

"But what was his name?"

"Paul?--no! Peter?--no! Chut, bless ye, it's clane gone at me; but
it's one of the lot in the ould Book, any way."

"Was it Stephen?"

"By gough, yes, and a middlin' good guess too."

"Stephen what?"

"Stephen--shoo! it's gone at me again! What's that they're callin'
the ould King that's going buryin' down Laxey way?"

"Orry?"

"Stephen Orry it is, for sure. Then it's like you knew him, boy?"

"No--that is--no, no."

"No relations?"

"No. But is he still alive?"

"Aw, yes, though. It's unknownced to me that he's dead, anyway."

"Where is he living now?"

"Down Port Erin way, by the Sound, some place."

"Davy, do we put into the harbor at Ramsey?"

"Aw, divil a chance of that, boy, with sperrits comin' over the side
quiet-like in the night, you know, eighteen-pence a gallon, and as
much as you can drink for nothin'."

"How far do we lie outside?"

"Maybe a biscuit throw or two. We never useder lie farther, boy."

"That's nothing, Davy."

After that the watch had been changed, and then a strange thing had
happened. The day had been heavy and cold, with a sky that hung low
over the sea, and a mist that reduced the visible globe to a circle
of fifty fathoms wide. As the night had closed in the mist had
lifted, and the wind had risen and some sheets of water had come
combing over the weather quarter. The men had been turned up to stow
the yards and bring the schooner to the wind, and when they had gone
below they had been wet and miserable, chewing doggedly at the
tobacco in their cheeks, and growling at the darkness of the
forecastle, for the slush-lamp had not yet been lighted. And just
then, above the muttered curses, the tramping of heavy boots and the
swish of oilskins that were being shaken to drain them, there arose
the sweet song of a bird. It was Jason's canary, singing in the dark
corner of his bunk a foot above his head, for on coming below the lad
had thrown himself down in his wet clothes. The growling came to an
end, the shuffling of feet stopped, and the men paused a moment to
listen, and then burst into peals of laughter. But the bird gave no
heed