drowning him intirely, and the corpse holding on to the boat’s bottom for the dear life.”
“Pat!” said the other in mysterious tones, “would that that’s hanging round his neck be the presarving of him, what?”
“And why wouldn’t it? But isn’t he the big fool to be having it dangling where the wash of a wave, or a pickpocket, or a worse timptation than either might be staling it away from him?”
“And where else would he put it?”
“Did ye ever git the sight of mine?”
“I did not.”
“On the back of me?”
“What?”
“Look here, now!” cried Pat, in the tones of one whose patience was entirely exhausted. His friend drew nearer, and I also ventured to accept an invitation not intended for me, so greatly was my curiosity roused by what the men said.
Pat turned his back to us as rapidly as he had spoken, and stooping at about half-leap-frog-angle, whipped his wet shirt upwards out of his loosely-strapped trousers, baring his back from his waist to his shoulder-blades. The moon was somewhat overcast, but there was light enough for us to see a grotesque semblance of the Crucifixion tattooed upon his flesh in more than one colour, and some accom