We all laughed till we nearly parted our braces, especially Warriner. I wouldn’t have believed he had so much humor. The passenger pulled away the tablecloth and the smashed crockery till he sighted the pudding. What with the smell of oil and burned feathers, and being all scorched up and stepped on, it wasn’t a very fine sight by this time. “Did any of you ever read ‘Great Expectations?’” he asked. None of us had. “It tells of a certain lady called Miss Havisham, who expected to be married one evening. The wedding supper was spread and everything ready, but the bridegroom never came. For years and years after did Miss Havisham keep that feast untouched in the deserted room—kept it until spiders spun webs over it, and mice and damp played havoc with the faded yellow cloth and the viands. Sometimes a boy named Pip would pay her a visit, and then the wax tapers would be lighted, while the strange pair walked round and round the decaying feast. “Even so, my friends, should I preserve this pudding and enthrone it in my Brooklyn home to remind me of my lost brandy and of this most extraordinary Thanksgiving. But that is impossible, so follow me.” He picked the pudding up from the floor and held it out at arm’s length, at the same time leading the way out on deck. Sunday and Tuesday, Flip and Jackson and all the crew forgot what they were about at sight of the queer procession, and Warriner holding out the pudding. He marched over to the lee bulwarks, got on top of an empty box, and began to look at the pudding with a very sorrowful expression, his eyes blinking and his head on one side. “What the devil is he about?” thinks I. He looked around at us and wiped his eyes with a silk handkerchief; then held out the blasted pudding in both hands so all of us could see it. “Gentlemen, behold! This was a plum-pudding. Yea, thou dark and sodden mass, pierced with feathers and baptized in kerosene; thou culinary triumph, concocted by Samuel Warriner and the descendant of Lord Cornwallis;—thou fond inspiration of our brain, which, owing to the combined assaults of Satan and yon sable African, hast so abominably miscarried; we bid thee an eternal farewell!” “Good G—, if he ain’t blubbering!” whispered Pratt, while Warriner looked so affected that Prince, Cornwallis and me nearly cried. “Good-by, pudding. Go-od-b-bye,” (heaving it overboard) “and be thou food for worms—I should say, fishes!” Away it went, and struck the water with a splash. All hands stared until it sunk, and then we looked at Warriner. He had taken up the fog-horn, and just as the pudding went under, he blew a mournful blast. “May the dear departed rest in peace,” he said, feelingly. Then we all pulled ourselves together and went back to work. MY BRAZILIAN ADVENTURE.