"Here is none o' yer tin-cint Standard Ile prapositions, but a rale dandy uv a lamp, fit for a lady's cabin on Vandherbilt's yacht.

An', for the luv o' Hiven, look at the make uv it, wid a handle where the bottom ought to be, an' all polished up like the pewther in Casey's saloon." "Oh, get a move on, Pat, an' tie her up," said the other voice.

"It's the Lord knows what o'clock, an' we've a long day before us to-morrow." The lamp moved astern, and the Irishman investigated matters further.
"There's bin black wur-rk here, George," he shouted.

"The moorin' rope nivver bruk.

It was cut." A sharp hiss of breath between McCulloch's teeth betrayed the stress of his emotions.