"Come, lads," cried the smith, in a species of serio-comic
desperation, when they had all assembled below, "let's drink to
sweethearts and wives."

"Hear, hear! Bless their hearts! Sweethearts and wives!" responded
the men. "Hip, hip!"

The cheer that followed was a genuine one.

"Now for a song, boys," cried one of the men, "and I think the last
arrivals are bound to sing first."

"Hear, hear! Ruby, lad, you're in for it," said the smith, who sat
near his assistant.

"What shall I sing?" enquired Ruby.

"Oh! let me see," said Joe Dumsby, assuming the air of one who
endeavoured to recall something. "Could you come Beet'oven's symphony
on B flat?"

"Ah! howld yer tongue, Joe," cried O'Connor, "sure the young man can
only sing on the sharp kays; ain't he always sharpin' the tools, not
to speak of his appetite?"

"You've a blunt way of speaking yourself, friend," said Dumsby, in a
tone of reproof.

"Hallo! stop your jokes," cried the smith; "if you treat us to any
more o' that sort o' thing we'll have ye dipped over the side, and