let me see," said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who
endeavoured to recall something. "Could you come Beet'oven's symphony
on B flat?"

"Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe," cried O'Connor, "sure the young man can
only sing on the sharp kays; ain't he always sharpin' the tools, not
to speak of his appetite?"

"You've a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend," said Dumsby, in a
tone of reproof.

"Hallo! stop your jokes," cried the smith; "if you treat us to any
more o' that sort o' thing we'll have ye dipped over the side, and
hung up to dry at the end o' the mainyard. Fire away, Ruby, my
tulip!"

"Ay, that's hit," said John Watt. "Gie us the girl ye left behind
ye."

Ruby flushed suddenly, and turned towards the speaker with a look of
surprise.

"What's wrang, freend? Hae ye never heard o' that sang?" enquired
Watt.

"O yes, I forgot," said Ruby, recovering himself in some confusion.
"I know the song--I--I was thinking of something--of----"

"The girl ye left behind ye, av coorse," put in O'Connor, with a
wink.

"Come, strike up!" cried the men.

Ruby at once obeyed, and sang the desired song with a sweet, full
voice, that had the effect of moistening some of the eyes present.

The song was received enthusiastically. "Your health and song, lad,"
said Robert Selkirk, the principal builder, who came down the ladder
and joined them at that moment.

"Thank you, now it's my call," said Ruby. "I call upon Ned O'Connor
for a song."

"Or a speech," cried Forsyth.

"A spaitch is it?" said O'Connor, with a look of deep modesty. "Sure,
I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs. O'Connor
to marry me, an' I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the
length of 'Och! darlint', when she cut me short in the middle with
'Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!'"

"Shame, shame!" said Dove, "to say that of your wife."

"Shame to yersilf," cried O'Connor indignantly. "Ain't I payin' the
good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me
bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?"

"Quite right, O'Connor; but let's have a song if you won't speak."

"Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?" said Ned.

"Certainly not," replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too
literally.

"Then don't ax _me_ for wan," said the Irishman, "but I'll do this
for ye, messmates: I'll read ye the last letter I got from the
mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all