"Gone to bed," replied Monteith, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "The deuce he has," said Ryan with surprise; "that's unusual for him." "Tired I suppose," was the answer. "It's a pity," observed Ryan, regretfully; "he is a deuced good fellow for a song." "Give us one yourself Pat," said Bentley, tapping his glass on the table. "Mr. Ryan for a song gentlemen." "Yes a song--a song"--from all. "Something jolly?" from Chester, who was now quite intoxicated. "I'll sing ye 'Killaloe,'" said Pat; "it's got a touch of the brogue about it that will go beautifully with the whiskey." So he accordingly sang "Killaloe" to a delighted audience, who joined in the chorus with bacchanalian vehemence, and who gave the "Whoop ye divils" at the end with a vigour worthy of Donnybrook Fair. Then Ronald sang, "Wrap me up in my old stable jacket"--that old song which is always such a favourite; and after sundry other selections had been given by gentlemen with good intentions, but husky voices, Pat was called on to sing his favourite nigger song, "I love a lubly gal." A pleasant voice had Pat, and he sang the plaintive little melody in a charmingly sympathetic manner-- "I love a lubly gal, I do, And I have loved a gal or two; An' I know how a gal should be Lub'd--you bet I do." Ronald found himself humming it as he went to bed, and then fell to sleep, and dreamt the dark girl he had seen that day in Valletta was the "lubly gal" he loved. * * * * * Next morning they were out of sight of land, afloat on the blue waters, with the blue sky above them. Ronald was up early, as he found it too hot to remain below, and having had his tub and arrayed himself in his flannels, he went on deck to have a smoke before the ladies put in an appearance. The lascars were washing down the deck, and disturbing numerous sleepers who had been taking their rest all night upstairs for the sake of coolness. One of these was Pat, who came stumbling out of the smoking-room in his pyjama, with a fur rug under one arm and a pillow under the other. "Hullo Pat," said Monteith, laughing; "you look as if you were going to the pawnbroker." "I want to go to bed," retorted Pat crossly; "those divils in the smoking-room always commence shyin' pillows in the morning, and I'm as sleepy as Rip Van Winkle. I'll have another forty winks." "Nonsense," said Ronald, looking at his watch; "it's about seven; go and have your bath and join me on deck." "All roight," assented Pat, with a gigantic yawn; "I daresay cold water will wake me up." "And, I say," called out Monteith, as Pat rolled along towards the saloon, "knock up Ventin; his cabin is No. 43." "Roight you are," from Pat, as he disappeared.