a shocking affair from a hygienic or artistic standpoint. Its face was just inked on, it had no features, no arms; yet not for all the dolls in the world would she have exchanged this filthy and nearly formless thing. It was a fetish. 

 She sat nursing it on one side of the helmsman, whilst Dick, on the other side, hung his nose over the water, on the look-out for fish. 

 “Why do you smoke, Mr Button?” asked Emmeline, who had been watching her friend for some time in silence. 

 “To aise me thrubbles,” replied Paddy. 

 He was leaning back with one eye shut and the other fixed on the luff of the sail. He was in his element: nothing to do but steer and smoke, warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze. A landsman would have been half demented in his condition, many a sailor would have been taciturn and surly, on the look-out for sails, and alternately damning his soul and praying to his God. Paddy smoked. 

 “Whoop!” cried Dick. “Look, Paddy!” 

 An albicore a few cables lengths to port had taken a flying leap from the flashing sea, turned a complete somersault and vanished. 

 “It’s an albicore takin’ a buck lep. Hundreds I’ve seen before this; he’s bein’ chased.” 

 “What’s chasing him, Paddy?” 

 “What’s chasin’ him?—why, what else but the gibly-gobly-ums!” 

 Before Dick could enquire as to the personal appearance and habits of the latter, a shoal of silver arrow heads passed the boat and flittered into the water with a hissing sound. 

 “Thim’s flyin’ fish. What are you sayin’—fish can’t fly! Where’s the eyes in your head?” 

 “Are the gibblyums chasing them too?” asked Emmeline fearfully. 

 “No; ’tis the Billy balloos that’s afther thim. Don’t be axin’ me any more questions now, or I’ll be tellin’ you lies in a minit.” 

 Emmeline, it will be remembered, had brought a small parcel with her done up in a little shawl; it was under the boat seat, and every now and then she would stoop down to see if it were safe. 

 

 

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