“The fiddle’s an old friend, so the bo’sun tells me,” he said, nodding towards the faces that turned to him.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Why, I’m blessed if it isn’t Sambo’s old thing.”

“It’s your honour knows how to bring the heart out of it, anyhow.”

“My eyes, Pat!  You should ha’ heerd it at the dignity ball we went ashore for at Barbadoes.  Did you ever foot the floor with a black washerwoman of eighteen stun, dressed out in muslin the colour of orange marmalade, and white kid shoes?”

“I did not, the darlin’!”

As the circle gossiped, Dennis tuned the fiddle, talking vehemently to the boatswain between whiles.

“Bo’sun! ye’re not to say a word to the boy. (Sit down, Alister, I tell ye!) I ask it as a favour.  He didn’t mince matters, I’ll allow, but it was GOD’S truth, and no less, that he spoke.  Come, bo’sun, who’s a better judge of manners than yourself?  We’d had enough and to spare of that, (Will ye keep quiet, ye cantankerous Scotchman!  Who’s harming ye now?  Jack, if ye move an inch, I’ll break this fiddle over your head.) Bo’sun! we’re perishing for our grog, are ye aware?”

The diversion was successful.  The boatswain, with a few indignant mutterings, devoted himself to doling out the tots of grog, and then proposed Dennis O’Moore’s health in a speech full of his own style of humour, which raised loud applause; Dennis commenting freely on the text, and filling up awkward pauses with flourishes on Sambo’s fiddle.  The boatswain’s final suggestion that the ship’s guest should return thanks by a song, instead of a sentiment, was received with acclamations, during which he sat down, after casting a mischievous glance at Dennis, who was once more blushing and fidgeting with shyness.

“Ye’ve taken your revenge, bo’sun,” said he.

“Them that blames should do better, sir,” replied the boatswain, folding his arms.

“A song! a song!  Mr. O’Moore!” shouted the men.

“I only know a few old Irish songs,” pleaded Dennis.

“Ould Ireland for ever!” cried Pat Shaughnessy.

“Hear! hear!  Encore, Pat!” roared the men.  They were still laughing.  Then one or two of those nearest to us put up their hands to get silence.  Sambo’s fiddle was singing (as only voices and fiddles can sing) a melody to which the heads and toes of the company soon began to nod and beat: 

               “La, l[)e] l[=a] la la, la la la, l[=a] l[)e] la, la
                L[=a], le l[=a] la la, la la la, la—­l[)e] la la,”

hummed the boatswain.  “Lor’ bless me, Mr. O’Moore, I heard that afore you were born, though I’m blessed if I know where.  But it’s a genteel pretty thing!”

“It’s all about roses and nightingales!” shouted Dennis, with comical grimaces.

“Hear! hear!” answered the oldest and hairiest-looking of the sailors, and the echoes of his approbation only died away to let the song begin.  Then the notes of Sambo’s fiddle also dropped off, and I heard Dennis O’Moore’s beautiful voice for the first time as he gave his head one desperate toss and began: