"'Now, swaitest of men, I must stop, for Neddy's just come in howlin' like a born Turk for his tay; so no more at present from, yours till deth,
"'KATHLEEN O'CONNOR.'"
"Has she any sisters?" enquired Joe Dumsby eagerly, as Ned folded the letter and replaced it in his pocket.
"Six of 'em," replied Ned; "every one purtier and better nor another."
"Is it a long way to Galway?" continued Joe.
"Not long; but it's a coorious thing that Englishmen never come back from them parts whin they wance ventur' into them."
Joe was about to retort when the men called for another song.
"Come, Jamie Dove, let's have 'Rule, Britannia'."
Dove was by this time quite yellow in the face, and felt more inclined to go to bed than to sing; but he braced himself up, resolved to struggle manfully against the demon that oppressed him.
It was in vain! Poor Dove had just reached that point in the chorus where Britons stoutly affirm that they "never, never, never shall be slaves", when a tremendous roll of the vessel caused him to spring from the locker, on which he sat, and rush to his berth.