CHAPTER SEVEN.
AT SEA.
"Hullo, Weeks!" cried Tom Jerrold, coming up at the moment and grinning at him rolling in the scuppers.

"What's the matter, old fellow?
You seem rather down." "Begorra, he's ownly havin' a cooler to aise that nashty timper av his own," said the boatswain from the door of his cabin, which was just next ours in the deck-house, only more forward.

And then, turning to me, he added, "Sure an' that wor a purty droive, Misther Gray-ham; ye lit him have it straight from the shouldher." "I'm sure I didn't mean to hurt him," I answered, sorry now for my opponent as he scrambled at last up on his feet, looking very bedraggled and showing on his face the signs of the fray.

"I only held out my hand to save the poor bird, and he ran against my fist." "Oh, did you ?" slobbered Weeks, half crying, in a savage, vindictive voice, and rushing at me as soon as he rose up.

"You spiteful beggar! Well, two can play at that game, and I'll pay you out for it if you've got pluck enough to fight!" "Be aisy now," interposed Tim Rooney, stepping between us and holding him back.