"Tell us, Donovan," said he--"now, what would you do with that monkey, supposing I make him over to you?" "Faith," replied Mick, not knowing whether the boatswain was trying to take a rise out of him or not, "Oi wudn't ate him, sor." "I suppose not," said Mr Blockley, grinning, as Mick did, in sympathy. "But would you take care of him, my lad, if I give the monkey to you?" "An' is it whither Oi'll take care ov him ye're afther axin' me?" said my chum, taking hold of Jocko as he spoke. "Begorrah, ye jist coom to me arrums, ye little baiste, and show Misther Blockley how fond yez are ov me, ye divvle!" Jocko, who had been standing in front of: the pair at the time on the forecastle in the position of `present arms,' holding his little wooden rifle as correctly as the smartest drilled marine, at once dropped this on the deck, and sprang, not into Mick's arms, but on to his left shoulder, where he chattered and grimaced away, no doubt telling his chosen friend in the choicest monkey language how much he loved him. This was proof to Mr Blockley of the affection that existed between the two; so, without further demur, he made over all right and title he might possess in Jocko to Mick. "But, you're sure, my lad, you'll take good care of him," he said. "I wouldn't like any harm to come to the poor little beggar. The doctor gave him to me on the understanding that he would be well looked after, and on the same conditions I trust him now to you." "Faith, sor, ye couldn't do botther," replied Mick, caressing Jocko with much satisfaction, evidently proud to be his real owner. "Sure, an' if Oi've got to go to say ag'in an' can't look afther the baiste mesilf, it's some 'un ilse Oi'll be afther givin' him to thet'll say to him aven betther nor mesilf!" "And who's that?" inquired the boatswain, with a laugh, noticing a flush come over Mick's face. "You know I'm interested in the monkey and have a sort of right to ask." Mick looked `nine ways for Sunday,' to use his own favourite expression. "Bedad, sor," he at length replied sheepishly, "it's Jenny, sor." "But," persisted Mr Blockley, smelling a rat, "who's Jenny?" "Tom's sisther, sure." "O-o-oh!" Not being certain exactly as to the meaning of Mr Blockley's ejaculation, Mick went on to explain further. "Yis, sor, she's the sisther, sure, ov me fri'nd Tom Bowlin' here, sor," he said, pointing me out by a punch in the ribs that nearly knocked all the breath out of me. "An', sure, she's moighty fond ov burrds!" Mr Blockley laughed. "From that, I suppose, Paddy," he said, as soon as he could speak, "you put Jocko here in the same boat as the birds?" "Begorrah, Oi do, sor," replied Mick, with a broad grin, as he cuddled the monkey up to him in his arms; Jocko taking off Mick's cap the while, and carefully scattering its motley contents to the winds. "Oi call him, sure, a Saint Michael's canary, faith, sor!"