"Give us 'The British Grenadiers,'" said a seaman. "A dog before a soldier," exclaimed the voice of an Irishman. "Give us 'St. Patrick's Day in the Morning,' me dear." "Hurrah for 'St. Patrick's Day'!" shouted several voices; and Dicky, putting his fife to his lips, started the most inspiriting air that ever mortal genius composed. The drum rattled, the sticks throbbed in the little fists; Dicky began to caper as he played; nearly all the ship's company were assembled on the forecastle, and many began to leap about and spring with delight to the music; the dog rose, and in a stately way ran or waltzed amongst the caper-cutters. That fore-deck then was a wonderfully animated picture. The arch of the fore-course, sleepily swelling and sinking, yielded a good sight of the scene to the quarter-deck. The setting sun painted it into a canvas almost gorgeous with the streaks of purple fire in the tarry shrouds and backstays, and in the climbing lines of the well-greased masts; and in the flush on the breasts of the sails, and in the red stars it kindled in all that mirrored it. The fife and drum kept company superbly, and the fine Irish air seemed to thrill through the ship, and to echo up aloft like some new spring or spirit of life. The cocks in the coops abaft the galley chimed in with a constant defying crowing, about as melodious as the noise of a broken-winded barrel organ. The pigs under the long-boat grunted in sympathy with sounds which reminded them of the trough and the haystack and the near village. Whilst all this harmless sailors' pleasure was going forward on the ship's forecastle the captain of the vessel came out of the cabin, and when he stepped upon the deck he stood a moment with his hand resting upon the companion-hood, looking forward, and listening to the music. He was a man of about forty-five to fifty years of age, and his name was William Layard. He scarcely wore the appearance of a sailor. The lower portion of his face was hidden in hair, which was of a dark brown, streaked with gray, and his hair was long. His nose was a fine, well-bred aquiline, his brow square, his eyebrows shaggy, and his dark eyes burnt with brightness in the shadow cast by their eaves. He wore a soft black hat, which sat securely upon his head, and was clothed in a monkey-jacket and blue cloth trousers. No discerning eye but would have dwelt a little upon him in speculation. His face showed marks of breeding, but there was something else in him, too, that would have detained the gaze--a faint, an almost elusive, expression of triumph, of an inward exaltation, which was almost dissembled, and subtly revealed in the mouth that so delicately diffused it that only a keen eye would have witnessed it.