ght little figure stepping to and fro, and his feet shuffling to the
air, his eyes seeking and bestowing encouragement--and to have enjoyed
the bow, so nicely calculated between jest and earnest, between grace
and clumsiness, with which he brought each song to a conclusion. He was
not only a great favourite among ourselves, but his songs attracted the
lords of the saloon, who often leaned to hear him over the rails of the
hurricane-deck. He was somewhat pleased, but not at all abashed, by this
attention; and one night, in the midst of his famous performance of
"Billy Keogh," I saw him spin half round in a pirouette and throw an
audacious wink to an old gentleman above.

This was the more characteristic, as, for all his daffing, he was a
modest and very polite little fellow among ourselves.

He would not hurt the feelings of a fly, nor throughout the passage did
he give a shadow of offence; yet he was always, by his innocent freedoms
and love of fun, brought upon that narrow margin where politeness must
be natural to walk without a fall. He was once seriously angry, and that
in a grave, quiet manner, because they supplied no fish on Friday; for
Barney was a conscientious Catholic. He had likewise strict notions of
refinement; and when, late one evening, after the women had retired, a
young Scotsman struck up an indecent song, Barney's drab clothes were
immediately missing from the group. His taste was for the society of
gentlemen, of whom, with the reader's permission, there was no lack in
our five steerages and second cabin; and he avoided the rough and
positive with a girlish shrinking. Mackay, partly from his superior
powers of mind, which rendered him incomprehensible, partly from his
extreme opinions, was especially distasteful to the Irishman. I have
seen him slink off, with backward looks of terror and offended delicacy,
while the other, in his witty, ugly way, had been professing hostility
to God, and an extreme theatrical readiness to be shipwrecked on the
spot. These utterances hurt the little coachman's modesty like a bad
word.

THE SICK MAN

One night Jones, the young O'Reilly, and myself were walking arm-in-arm
and briskly up and down the deck. Six bells had rung; a head-wind blew
chill and fitful, the fog was closing in with a sprinkle of rain, and
the fog-whistle had been turned on, and now divided time with its
unwelcome outcries, loud like a bull, thrilling and int