and reverberated there like the noise of thunder; after last night, they had better be as quiet as possible.  To take his mind off the disappointment, Coristine asked Ben if he could sing and paddle too.  He guessed he could, as paddling wasn’t taking his breath away any.  So Ben was pressed to sing, and at once assumed a lugubrious air, that reminded the lawyer of The Crew.  The song was about a dying youth, who is asked what he will give in legacy to his mother, his sister, and various other relatives.  He is liberal to all, till his lady-love’s name is mentioned, and, for some unknown reason, excites his indignation.  The tune was not the same as The Crew’s copyright.

     “What will you give your sweetheart, my comfort and my joy? 
     What will you give your sweetheart, my darling boy?”
                         “Oh! a gallows to hang on! 
                         Mother, make my bed soft;
                         I’ve a pain in my chest;
                         I want to lay down.”

The last line was sung in a very solemn and affecting monotone.  Coristine had to pretend to be deeply moved, to turn round facing the Captain, and chew first his moustache and then half of his pocket handkerchief.  “Eh, Ben,” said the graver minister, “I’m afraid that was no’ a very Christian spirit to die in.”

“No, your raiverence,” replied the singer, “but ef I hadn’t a knowed it was old man Newcome as took Serlizer away, I’d be cant-hooked and pike-poled ef I wouldn’t ha’ sung jest them words, that’s ef I had a paiun in my chaist and wanted to lay down.”  When they reached the third lake, through a channel similar to the last, the Captain said sternly:  “I’m in command of this vessel, and expect orders to be obeyed.  No more singin’ nor laughin’ out nor loud talkin’.  Doctor says it’s as much as life’s worth to go beyond it.  You’ve heerd orders; now mind ’em.”  Everything was silent, save the soft dip of the paddles in the water; the quiet was painfully oppressive.  Ugly thoughts of bad men mingled with a sense of the natural beauty of the scene.  Toner in the bow silently pointed to a square artificial-looking white object at the entrance to the next channel, which was the limit of the voyage.  At last the punt came up to it, and its occupants found the channel barred by a heavy grating, that passed down into the water.  Above it was a notice in the usual form, indicating the prosecution of trespassers, and signed by order of the proprietor, Miss Du Plessis, with the name of John Carruthers, J.P.  “The villain!” ejaculated Mr. Errol.  “John has neither been here nor sent here.  It’s a forgery, an impudent forgery.”

“Let us take it down and carry it back with us,” said the lawyer.

“Na, na, my lad; we maun just wait till we come in force.”

“Time to ’bout ship,” growled the Captain.

“Hush!” whispered the minister, “I hear a voice, a woman’s voice.”

“Come on!” said the lawyer, jumping ashore; “will you come, Ben?”