hole is distributed by the occasional paying out or hauling
in of a few yards of chain--a process which is styled "easing the nip."

"Horroo! me hearty, ye're as clain as a lady's watch," exclaimed a man
of rugged form but pleasant countenance, as he issued from the small
doorway of the lantern-house with a bundle of waste in one hand and an
oil-can in the other.

This was one of the lamplighters of the light-ship--Jerry MacGowl--a man
whose whole soul was, so to speak, in that lantern. It was his duty to
clip and trim the wicks, and fill the lamps, and polish the reflectors
and brasses, and oil the joints and wheels (for this was a revolving--in
other words a flashing light), and clean the glasses and windows. As
there were nine lights to attend to, and get ready for nightly service,
it may be easily understood that the lamplighter's duty was no sinecure.

The shout of Jerry recalled the king from his contemplation of things in
general to the lantern in particular.

"All ready to hoist, Jerry?" inquired Mr Welton, going forward.

"All ready, sir," exclaimed the man, looking at his handiwork with
admiration, and carefully removing a speck of dust that had escaped his
notice from one of the plate-glass windows; "An't she a purty thing
now?--baits the best Ginaiva watch as iver was made. Ye might ait yer
supper off her floor and shave in the reflictors."

"That's a fact, Jerry, with no end of oil to your salad too," said Mr
Welton, surveying the work of the lamplighter with a critical eye.

"True for ye," replied Jerry, "an' as much cotton waste as ye like
without sinful extravagance."

"The sun will be down in a few minutes," said the mate, turning round
and once more surveying the western horizon.

Jerry admitted that, judging from past experience, there was reason to
believe in the probability of that event; and then, being of a poetical
temperament, he proceeded to expatiate upon the beauty of the evening,
which was calm and serene.

"D'ye know, sir," he said, gazing towards the shore, between which and
the floating light a magnificent fleet of merchantmen lay at anchor
waiting for a breeze--each vessel reflected clearly in the water along
with the dazzling clouds of gold that towered above the setting
sun--"D'ye know, sir, I niver sees a sky like that but it minds me o'
the blissid green hills an' purty lakes of owld Ireland, an' fills me
buzzum wid a sort of inspiration till it feels fit a'most to bust.