"Or a speech," cried Forsyth.

"A spaitch is it?" said O'Connor, with a look of deep modesty. "Sure,
I never made a spaitch in me life, except when I axed Mrs. O'Connor
to marry me, an' I never finished that spaitch, for I only got the
length of 'Och! darlint', when she cut me short in the middle with
'Sure, you may have me, Ned, and welcome!'"

"Shame, shame!" said Dove, "to say that of your wife."

"Shame to yersilf," cried O'Connor indignantly. "Ain't I payin' the
good woman a compliment, when I say that she had pity on me
bashfulness, and came to me help when I was in difficulty?"

"Quite right, O'Connor; but let's have a song if you won't speak."

"Would ye thank a cracked tay-kittle for a song?" said Ned.

"Certainly not," replied Peter Logan, who was apt to take things too
literally.

"Then don't ax _me_ for wan," said the Irishman, "but I'll do this
for ye, messmates: I'll read ye the last letter I got from the
mistress, just to show ye that her price is beyond all calkerlation."

A round of applause followed this offer, as Ned drew forth a
much-soiled letter from the breast pocket of his coat, and carefully
unfolding it, spread it on his knee.

"It begins," said O'Connor, in a slightly hesitating tone, "with some