As the family were sitting at breakfast Sweeny’s voice was heard in the veranda outside, “colloguing” with another voice which seemed familiar.

“Listen,” whispered Clara.  “That is Captain Glover.  Let us hear what they say.  They are both so queer!”

“An’ what” ("fwat” he pronounced it) “the divil have ye been up to?” demanded Sweeny.  “Ye’re a purty sailor, buttoned up in a long-tail coat, wid a white hankerchy round yer neck.  Have ye been foolin’ paple wid makin’ ’em think ye’re a Protestant praste?”

“I’ve been blowin’ glass, Sweeny,” replied the sniffling voice of Phineas Glover.

“Blowin’ glass!  Och, yees was always powerful at blowin’.  But I niver heerd ye blow glass.  It was big lies mostly whin I was a listing.”

“Yes, blowin’ glass,” returned the Fair Havener in a tone of agreeable reminiscence, as if it had been a not unprofitable occupation.  “Found there wasn’t a glass-blower in all Californy.  Bought ’n old machine, put up to the mines with it, blew all sorts ’f jigmarigs ‘n’ thingumbobs, ‘n’ sold ’em to the miners ‘n’ Injuns.  Them critters is jest like sailors ashore; they’ll buy anything they set eyes on.  Besides, I sounded my horn; advertised big, so to speak; got up a sensation.  Used to mount a stump ‘n’ make a speech; told ’em I’d blow Yankee Doodle in glass, any color they wanted; give ’em that sort ’f gospel, ye know.”

“An’ could ye do it?” inquired the Paddy, confounded by the idea of blowing a glass tune.

“Lord, Sweeny! you’re greener ’n the miners.  When ye swaller things that way, don’t laugh ’r ye’ll choke yerself to death, like the elephant did when he read the comic almanac at breakfast.”

“I don’t belave that nuther,” asseverated Sweeny, anxious to clear himself from the charge of credulity.

“Don’t believe that!” exclaimed Glover.  “He did it twice.”

“Och, go way wid ye.  He couldn’t choke himself afther he was dead.  I wouldn’t belave it, not if I see him turn black in the face.  It’s yerself’ll get choked some day if yees don’t quit blatherin’.  But what did ye get for yer blowin’?  Any more’n the clothes ye’re got to yer back?”

For answer Glover dipped into his pockets, took out two handfuls of gold pieces and chinked them under the Irishman’s nose.

“Blazes! ye’re lousy wid money,” commented Sweeny.  “Ye want somebody to scratch yees.”

“Twenty thousan’ dollars in bank,” added Glover.  “All by blowin’ ‘n’ tradin’.  Goin’ hum in the next steamer.  Anythin’ I can do for ye, old messmate?  Say how much.”

“It’s the liftinant is takin’ care av me.  He’s made a betther livin’ nor yees, a thousand times over, by jist marryin’ the right leddy.  An’ he’s going to put me in charrge av a farrum that they call the hayshindy, where I’ll sell the cattle for myself, wid half to him, an’ make slathers o’ money.”

“Thunder, Sweeny!  You’ll end by ridin’ in a coach.  What’ll ye take for yer chances?  Wal, I’m glad to hear ye’re doin’ so well.  I am so, for old times’ sake.”