On this occasion the subject was debated at one of our nightly parliaments in the shanty. Then the Saint broke out with one of those quaintly simple remarks that used to amuse us so much. He said—
"I don't think it can be right to burn oysters, you know. It must hurt them so awfully, poor things!"
Of course, we all laughed long and loudly. It seemed too ridiculous to consider the possibilities of an oyster feeling pain.
"Well done, Saint!" was the general exclamation; "that's a good excuse to get yourself off a job of humping over the rocks."
The Saint flushed up, and proceeded argumentatively, "Look here! Wouldn't it be better to burn dead shells?"
"F'what did shells is it, me dear?" asked O'Gaygun, in a wheedling tone.
"Well, there's plenty on Marahemo, for instance."
Marahemo, I may mention, is a hill about three miles back from the river. It is about one thousand feet high, I suppose, and lies behind our land.
"Did ye ivver hear the loike av that, now?" roared O'Gaygun, boisterously. "Here's the bhoy for ye! Here's the bhoy that's afraid to ate an eyester fur fear av hurtin' the baste, an' that's goin' to hump Marahemo down to the farrum, aal so bould an' gay! Shure now, thim's the shouldhers that can do that same!"
After a brief, friendly passage of arms between the two, the Saint continued hotly—