“Bedad,” said he unflinchingly, “the banshees, sure, the saints presairve the good people from harmin’ us! Can take virry good care ov thimselves; but, faith, if ye’d ivver sane wun, ye’d spake more rispictfully ov thim, sure!”
“Tell us,” inquired Joblins, the ‘green hand,’ you may recollect, who went on deck to fetch his second lot of grog with a spud-net and who, though he had been made a bit sharper since then by the chaff and jokes of his messmates, was still not by any means bright, “did yer ever see one o’ them ghostesses?”
“Hev Oi ivver sane wun?” repeated Mick, in a tone of intense scorn. “Begorrah, Oi hev sane hoondreds!”
“Lor’!” exclaimed the simpleton, evidently impressed by this bold assertion of my chum, “tell us, mate, wot they’s like.”
This was enough for Mick.
“Ye won’t be froightened, sure,” he began, in a very solemn tone, the more to impress the anxious listener, “if Oi’m afther tillin’ ye the whole thruth, now?”
“Frightened! No,” replied Joblins defiantly, but looking nervous all the same. “I ain’t so soon frightened as that, Mick!”
“All roight, me joker,” said Mick. “Oi ownly thort ez how Oi’d not take ye onywheres, ye know; but, faith, ez Oi say ye’re so brave a chap, Oi’ll now carry on an’ till ye all about a raal banshee Oi saw t’other noight.”
Joblins moved uneasily on his seat.
“What!” he cried. “Yer doan’t mean aboard this yere ship?”