a battered case-bottle.

"Well," says he, eyeing me over, "what's the word?"

"Food!" says I.

"Nary a bite!" he answered, shaking his head. "But here's rum
now if you've a mind to sluice the ivories--ha?"

"Not a drop!" says I.

"Good! The more for me!" he nodded. "Rum--ha--

"Some swam in rum to kingdom come"--

"You sing a mighty strange song!" quoth I.

"Ha--d'ye like it?"

"No, I don't!"

"And wherefore no?"

"There seems overmuch death in it."

"Death?" cries he with a great laugh and hugging his case-bottle.
"Death says you--aye, aye, says I and so there is, death in every
line on't. 'Tis song as was made for dead men, of dead men, by a
dead man, and there's for ye now!" Here he lifted the bottle,
drank, and thereafter smacked his lips with great gusto. "Made