“Chorus.“There were five or six old drunken sailors

“Chorus.—Standin’ before the bar,

“Chorus.And Larry, he was servin’ them

“Chorus.—From a big five-gallon jar.

“Chorus.—Hoist up the flag, long may it wave!

“Chorus.—Long may it lade us to glory or the grave.

“Chorus.Stidy, boys, stidy—sound the jubilee,

“Chorus.—For Babylon has fallen, and

“Chorus.—“Chorus.—The slaves are all set free.”

Next morning the musician awoke beside the cask. He had not a trace of a headache, or any bad feeling, but he made Dick do the cooking; and he lay in the shade of the cocoa-nut trees, with his head on a “pilla” made out of an old coat rolled up, twiddling his thumbs, smoking his pipe, and discoursing about the “ould” days, half to himself and half to his companions.

That night he had another musical evening all to himself, and so it went on for a week. Then he began to lose his appetite and sleep; and one morning Dick found him sitting on the sand looking very queer indeed—as well he might, for he had been “seeing things” since dawn.

“What is it, Paddy?” said the boy, running up, followed by Emmeline.

Mr. Button was staring at a point on the sand close by. He had his right hand raised after the manner of a person who is trying to catch a fly. Suddenly he made a grab at the sand, and then opened his hand wide to see what he had caught.

“What is it, Paddy?”

“The Cluricaune,” replied Mr. Button. “All dressed in green he was—musha! musha! but it’s only pretindin’ I am.”

The complaint from which he was suffering has this strange thing about it, that, though the patient sees rats, or snakes, or what not, as real-looking as the real things, and though they possess his mind for a moment, almost immediately he recognises that he is suffering from a delusion.

The children laughed, and Mr. Button laughed in a stupid sort of way.

“Sure, it was only a game I was playin’—there was no Cluricaune at all—it’s whin I dhrink rum it puts it into me head to play games like that. Oh, be the Holy Poker, there’s red rats comin’ out of the sand!”

He got on his hands and knees and scuttled off towards the cocoa-nut trees, looking over his shoulder with a bewildered expression on his face. He would have risen to fly, only he dared not stand up.

The children laughed and danced round him as he crawled.

“Look at the rats, Paddy! look at the rats!” cried Dick.

“They’re in front of me!” cried the afflicted one, making a vicious grab at an imaginary rodent’s tail. “Ran dan the bastes!—now they’re gone. Musha, but it’s a fool I’m makin’ of meself.”

“Go on, Paddy,” said Dick; “don’t stop—Look there—there’s more rats coming after you!”

“Oh, whisht, will you?” replied Paddy, taking his seat on the sand, and wiping his brow. “They’re aff me now.”

The children stood by, disappointed of their game. Good acting appeals to children just as much as to grown-up people. They stood waiting for another excess of humour to take the comedian, and they had not to wait long.