A sudden and unwonted shade came over Matthew's countenance: "Hum!" said he, gloomily, "liked the old Dreadnought better; but she's now—God bless her!—only a hull, like me. But butter your shirt!" cried the gallant-hearted old fellow, bursting into his prevailing gaiety,—"sing tantara-bobus make shift! we shall live till we die—kill us that dare!" And again the old lads set up a merry laugh in unison, and were as happy, for the nonce, as the proudest monarchs in christendom. Molly Crabtree now entered with the rum, and began to prepare the grog, that real nectar for the sailor. The precious glass was mixed, and went round over and over again; nor would the old sailors be said "nay" when Molly looked modest about it: she was compelled to take a sip each time when it came to her turn. Old shipmates were named, and the bravery and virtues of the dead were honoured; hearty and kind wishes for the welfare of the living were expressed; old stories were told, and the joys of old times were recorded with a sigh; but sighing usually was followed by a laugh amid the utterance of old Matthew's singular expletive, "Butter your shirt! sing tantara-bobus make shift!" "Upon my honour, Mat," at length said Paul, for, as it began to grow towards midnight, the phraseology of the ancient mariners began to grow more consequential,—more by token that the "jack" of rum had now been repeated, for the third time—"upon my honour, Mat, you and I were no skinkers in that hot action when you first wore the buttered shirt." "Why, Lord ha' marcy on us!" cried Molly Crabtree, who had been listening all along, and staring like an owl at twilight, during the successive strange recitals of the two old seafarers,—"did Matthew ever wear a real buttered shirt, then? For Heaven's sake tell us the meaning on't!"