A man at the mess-table next ours heard his remark and burst out laughing. "I've heard tell o' the Flying Dutchman being seen in stormy weather when going round the Cape," he said, speaking across the table in our direction; "but I can't say as how I ever heard before of a banshee adrift on the wide Atlantic Ocean!" "Bedad, Oi say no rayson agin it," replied Mick, standing up for the superstitions of his country like a man. "Faith, a banshee can go ony whare he loikes." "Ay?" said the other interrogatively. "What is a banshee, my lad?" "Begorrah," answered Mick, crossing himself, "thet's more'n ony one knows, may the saints presairve us fur mintionin' on 'em! They'll be sperrits, Oi thinks, if Oi don't misremimber, ez can take ony shape they plaizes!" "Oh, spirits?" exclaimed the other man chaffingly, thinking he was going to pull Mick's leg a bit. "What sort o' spirits, my lad--is it rum, or gin, or whisky, now, you mean?" Mick did not reflect a bit, but came out pat with his answer. "Faith!" said he drily, setting the table in a roar as he winked from one to the other of the mess opposite, though this wink of his was hardly necessary, the habits and character of his questioner being very well known throughout the ship, "it's a rum tasthe ye'd foind thim sperrits, Oi'm afther thinkin', Misther Sharp! Bedad, yer gin wud be ez hot ez ginger; an' it's preshus little toime ye'd hev fur tournin' down the whisky, ez ye did, faith, the t'other day, whin ye wor brought up 'fore Noomber One on the quarther-deck, sure, fur goin' to shlape on the watch! Begorrah, if ye don't look out sharp, Misther Sharp, ye'll hev the divvle whiskin' ye off wid his tail, sure, fur thet same whisky ye're talkin' of!" "Well, well, my joker," said Sharp good-humouredly, joining in the laugh of the rest of the chaps, though it was against himself; "I'm sorry I hurt your feelings about that Irish banshee of yours!" This turned the merriment of the mess towards Mick again; but he came up to the scratch as `smilingly' as he did in his fight with the mulatto at Barbados. "Bedad," said he unflinchingly, "the banshees, sure, the saints presairve the good people from harmin' us! Can take virry good care ov thimselves; but, faith, if ye'd ivver sane wun, ye'd spake more rispictfully ov thim, sure!" "Tell us," inquired Joblins, the `green hand,' you may recollect, who went on deck to fetch his second lot of grog with a spud-net and who, though he had been made a bit sharper since then by the chaff and jokes of his messmates, was still not by any means bright, "did yer ever see one o' them ghostesses?" "Hev Oi ivver sane wun?" repeated Mick, in a tone of intense scorn. "Begorrah, Oi hev sane hoondreds!" "Lor'!" exclaimed the simpleton, evidently impressed by this bold assertion of my chum, "tell us, mate, wot they's like." This was enough for Mick.