I’ve previously mentioned, I could not make head or tail of his language, which his strong Irish brogue, equally strange to me then, made all the more difficult to be understood. I could see, of course, that he wanted to learn something of me; but what that something was I was unable to guess, although all the time anxious to oblige him to the best of my ability. He was so impatient, however, that he would hardly give me time to speak or inquire what he wanted, besides which, he frightened me by the way in which he roared out his unintelligible questions. So, unable to comprehend his meaning, I remained silent, staring at him helplessly as before.

Strange to say, though, my answer, or rather failure to answer this last interrogatory of his—for I had only repeated his own words—instead of further exasperating him as I feared, trembling the while down to my very boots, appeared to have the unexpected effect of appeasing his sudden outburst of passion, which now disappeared as quickly as it had broken out over my unoffending head.

“Be jabers, the gossoon’s a born nat’ral!” he said sympathetically in a sort of stage whisper to the stevedores, although in loud enough tones for me to hear; and then, looking at me more kindly, and speaking in a gentler key than he had yet adopted, he added, accentuating every word separately and distinctly, with a racier Milesian accent than ever: “Arrah, sure, an’ I didn’t mane to be rough on ye, laddie; but, till me now, whar’ d’ye come from, what’s y’r name, an’ what for are ye doin’ here?”

This was plain language, such as I could understand; and, seeing that he must be some one in authority, despite his tarred clothes and somewhat unpolished exterior, I hastened to answer his string of questions, doffing my cap respectfully as I did so.

“My name is Allan Graham,” I said on his motioning to those working the crane to stop a bit while I spoke, “and I came up early this morning from the country to sail in the Silver Queen. The brokers in Leadenhall Street, Messrs Splice and Mainbrace, to whom I went first, told me to go on down to the docks and join the ship at once, sending a clerk to show me the way, which he did, pointing out this vessel to me and leaving me after saying that I was to go on board by the ‘gangway,’ as he called the plank I walked up by—that is why I am here!”

I uttered these last words somewhat sturdily and in a dignified tone, plucking up courage as I proceeded; for, I began to get rather nettled at the man’s suspicions about me, his questions apparently having that look and bearing.

“Och, by the powers!” he ejaculated, taking no notice of my dignified demeanour; “yis, an’ that’s it, is it? Sure, an’ will ye till me now, are ye goin’ as a cabin passinger or what, avic?”

“I’m going in the Silver Queen as a first-class apprentice,” I answered with greater dignity than ever, glancing down proudly at the smart blue suit I wore, with its shining gilt buttons ornamented with an anchor in relief, which mother and sister Nellie had so much admired the day before, when I had donned it for the first time, besides inspecting me critically that very morning previous to my leaving home, to see that I looked all right—poor mother! dear Nell!

“Whe-e-e-up!” whistled my questioner between his teeth, a broad grin overspreading his yet broader face. “Alannah macree, me poor gossoon! it’s pitying ye I am, by me sowl, from the bottom av me heart. Ye’re loike a young bear wid all y’r throubles an’ thrials forenenst ye. Aye, yez have, as sure’s me name’s Tim Rooney, me darlint!”

“Why do you say so, sir?” I asked—more, however, out of curiosity than alarm, for I thought he was only trying to “take a rise out of me,” as the saying goes. “Why should you pity me?”

“An’ is it axin’ why, yez are?” said he, his broad smile expanding into a chuckle and the chuckle growing to a laugh. “Sure, an’ ye’ll larn afore ye’re much ouldher, that the joker who goes to say for fun moight jist as well go to the ould jintleman’s place down below in the thropical raygions for divarshun, plaize the pigs!”

His genial manner, and the merry twinkle in his eyes, which reminded me of father’s when he made some comical remark, utterly contradicted his disparaging comments on a sailor’s life, and I joined in the hearty “ho, ho, ho!” with which he concluded his statement.

“Why, then, did you go to sea, Mr Rooney,” I asked, putting him into a quandary with this home-thrust; “that is, if it is such a bad place as you make out?”

“Bedad, sorry o’ me knows!” he replied, shoving his battered cheese-cutter cap further off his brows and scratching his head reflectively. “Sure, an’ it’s bin a poozzle to me, sorr, iver since I furst wint afore the mast.”

“But—” I went on, wishing to pursue my inquiries, when he interrupted me before I was able to proceed any further.

“Whisht! Be aisy now, me darlint,” he whispered, with an expressive wink; and, turning round sharply on the stevedores, who, taking advantage of his talking to me, had struck work and were indulging in a similar friendly chat, he began briskly to call them to task for their idleness, raising his voice to the same stentorian pitch that had startled me just now on our first introduction.

“What the mischief are ye standin’ star-gazin’ there for, ye lazy swabs, chatterin’ an’ grinnin’ away loike a parcel av monkeys?” he cried, waving his arms about as if he were going to knock some of them down. “If I had my way wid ye, an’ had got ye aboord a man-o’-war along o’ me, it’s ‘four bag’ I’d give ivery man Jack o’ ye. Hoist away an’ be blowed to ye, or I’ll stop y’r pay, by the howly pokher I will!”

At this, the men, who seemed to understand very well that my friend of the woollen jersey and canvas overalls’s hard voice and words did not really mean the terrible threats they conveyed, although the speaker intended to be obeyed, started again briskly shipping the cargo and lowering it down into the hold, grinning the while one to another as if expressing the opinion that their taskmaster’s bark was worse than his bite.

“I must kape ’em stirrin’ their stoomps, or ilse, sure, the spalpeens ’ud strike worrk the minnit me back’s toorned,” said he on resuming his talk with me, as if in explanation of this little interlude. “Yez aid y’r name’s Grame, didn’t ye? I once knew a Grame belongin’ to Cork, an’ he wor a pig jobber. S’pose now, he warn’t y’r ould father, loike?”

“Certainly not!” cried I, indignantly. “My father is a clergyman and a gentleman and an Englishman, and lives down in the country. Our name, too, is Graham and not Grame, as you pronounce it.”

“’Pon me conshinsh, I axes y’r pardin, sorr. Sure, an’ I didn’t mane no harrm,” said my friend, apologising in the most handsome way for the unintentional insult; and, putting out a brawny hairy paw like that of Esau’s, he gave a grip to my poor little mite of a hand that made each knuckle crack, as he introduced himself in rough and hearty sailor fashion. “Me name’s Tim Rooney, as I tould you afore, Misther Gray-ham—sure, an’ it’s fond I am ov bacon, avic, an’ ham, too, by the same token! I’d have ye to know, as ye’re a foorst-class apprentice—which kills me enthirely wid the laffin’ sure!—that I’m the bosun av the Silver Quane; an’ as we’re agoin’ to be shipmets togither, I hopes things’ll be moighty plisint atwane us, sure.”

“I’m sure I hope so, too,” I replied eagerly, thinking him an awfully jolly fellow, and very unlike the man I imagined him to be at first; and we then shook hands again to cement the compact of eternal friendship, although I took care this time that my demonstrative boatswain should not give me so forcible a squeeze with his huge fist as before, observing as I looked round the vessel