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 "Nine barrels—not bad for the last night," said Christian.

"Souse them well," said Kisseck, and Davy Corteen sprinkled salt on the herrings as they lay in the hold.

Mark Crennel, who acted as slushy, otherwise cook, came up from below with a huge saucepan, which he filled with the fish. As he did so, the ear was conscious of a faint "cheep, cheep"—the herrings were still alive.

All hands then went below for a smoke, except the man at the tiller, and Kisseck and Christian, who stood talking at the bow. It is true that Danny Fayle lay on the deck, but the lad was hardly an entity. His uncle and Christian heeded him not at all, yet Danny heard their conversation, and, without thought of mischief, remembered what he heard.

Christian was talking earnestly of some impending disaster, of debts, and the near approach of the time when his father must be told.

"I've put that man off time after time," he said; "he'll not wait much longer, and then—God help us all!"

Kisseck laughed. "You're allis in Paddy's hurricane—right up and down," he said, jeeringly. "Yer raely wuss till ever."

"I tell you the storm is coming," said Christian, with some vexation.

"Then keep your weather eye liftin', that's all," said Kisseck, loftily.

Christian turned aside with an impatient gesture. After a pause he said, "You wouldn't talk to me like