either to their silence or their noise, but sang on with a full
throat. And the men listened, and then laughed again, and then
suddenly ceased to laugh. A match was struck and the slush-lamp began
to gleam out over mahogany faces that looked at each other with eyes
of awe. The men shook out their coats and hung them over the
stanchions. Still the bird sang on. It was uncanny, this strange
singing in the darkness. The men charged their cuddies, fired up, and
crouched together as they smoked. Still the bird sang on.

"Och, it's the divil in the craythur," said one; "you go bail there's
a storm brewin'. It's just ould Harry hisself rej'icing."

"Then, by St. Patrick, I'll screw the neck of him," said another.

"Aisy, man, aisy," said old Davy; "it's the lad's."

"The lad be----" said the other, and up he jumped. Jason saw the man
coming towards his bunk, and laid hold of the wrist of the arm that
he stretched over it.

"Stop that," said Jason; but the lad was on his back, and in an
instant the man had thrown his body on top of him, leaned over him
and wrenched open the door of the cage. The song stopped; there was a
short rustle of wings, a slight chirp-chirp, and then a moment's
silence, followed by the man's light laugh as he drew back with the
little yellow bird dangling by the neck from his black thumb and
forefinger.

But before the great hulking fellow had twisted about to where his
mates sat and smoked under the lamp, Jason had leapt from his bunk,
stuck his fist into the ruffian's throat and pinned him against a
beam.

"---- you," he cried, thrusting his face into the man's face, "shall
I kill you after it?"

"Help! My God, help!" the man gurgled out, with Jason's knuckles
ground hard into his windpipe.

The others were in no hurry to interfere, but they shambled up at
length, and amid shouts and growls of "Let go," "Let go the hoult,"
and "God's sake, slack the grip," the two were parted. Then the man
who had killed the bird went off, puffing and cursing between his
chattering teeth, and his mates began to laugh at the big words that
came from his weak stomach, while old Davy Kerruish went over to
Jason to comfort him.

"Sarve him right, the craythur," said Davy. "He's half dead, but
that's just half too much life in him yet, though. It's what I've
tould them times on times. 'Lave him alone,' says I; 'the lad's
quiet, but he'll be coorse enough if he's bothered. And my gough,
boy, what a face at ye