"but litter o' yoong blind poops? an' here's t' ou'd un, see, as deed's mutton! Dang him, but some un's got an' baited t' hook wi't, there's nou't else in 's guts!" The whole poop was one roar of laughing, when Mrs Brady's pug was found delivered of four pups, inside the shark, since she went overboard, and two of 'em alive; the news ran fore and aft in a moment. "_Took short_ she's been, Jack!" said one. "Beats the profit Joney!" "I say, 'mate, them whelps is born twice over. Blessed if my Sal at home, now, wouldn't give a year's 'lotment for one on 'em!" "Poor devil!" said one of the writers, "she must have been sadly in want of a lying-in hospital!" "Look out, all hands of ye!" cried some one, "there's the old girl herself coming on deck! sharp's the word!" And away we scuttled right and left, some aloft, and some down one poop-ladder, as Mrs Brady, with the Brigadier and his butler after her, came fuming up the other. The black made one spring over the quarter as soon as he saw her; but the Irish topman, Mick, slipped his foot amongst the shark's blood, and rolled on his back, while the old bo'sun made stand in the thick of it behind. "Saze the villains, I charge ye, Brigadier!" screamed Mrs Brady, though he and his manservant only kept dodging the boatswain round a sort of a quagmire of blood and grease, while the old vixen caught Mick by his red hair and whiskers. "Where's my dog, ye murdering spalpeen?" said she, panting for breath, "what have ye done with my Dianny, ye monsther? Spake, or I'll----" "Be the holy elaven thousand, yer ladyship!" said Mick, "an' it's _lost_ did ye think she wor! isn't there _five_ of 'em back! Whisper! yer ladyship's riv'rence,--she's _laid in_, poor craythure, an'----" "_Oh!_ you Irish thief!" roared Mrs Brady, hitting him a slap as he tried to rise, that sent him down again, "is it _that_ you'd say to----" "No, thin'," sung out Mick, rubbing his ear, and guarding with one arm,--"rest her sowl! but I'm innycint! Av _that_'ll plase, mim, och an' I'll swear she died a vargin ----" Tug came both Mrs Brady's hands through his hair, while the butler caught a kick in the stomach from Mick's foot. "Murther!" gasped the poor fellow, "sure an' I dun' know she was ayven a faym'le; bad luck t'ye, 'mates, give uz a hand. Och, an' is this the road ye thrate a counthryman, mim?" "_Me_ your countryman! ye bogtrottin' wretch ye!" screamed the old fury, her brogue getting worse the more she heated,--"take _that_!--don't rise, if ye dare!" "Faix thin, yer ladyship darlin'," said O'Hooney, grinning in spite of his hard usage, "I tould a lie,--och, lave some o' me hair!--murther intirely! I'm----" All the time none of us could stir for sheer laughing, but seeing poor Mick like to fare hard with the old vixen, who was near as big as himself, and as strong as a horse, I whispered to the men to run round and let go the poop awning--so down it came, with a few buckets of water in it, over the five of them; and