"Punch, Brothers, Punch," he thought; for "Mariar" was odious in its origin; and yet, loathing it, he could not get rid of it, not even in the quiet of his own cabin. Standing before a mirror there, an hour after he had left the smoking-room, he found himself tying a strip of black silk about his collar into a knot the shape of a butterfly, and, as he did so, actually timing the movements of his hands to the beat of "Mariar." In spite of himself, he brushed his hair with a vocal "Mariar" for every stroke of his brushes;—the wretched chanting had fastened itself not only in his ears but in his throat. Over and over, he muttered fiercely, unable to stop:
Mariar!
Bay rum in a bottle we'll buy 'er!"
An interruption broke the spell for him, though not in a manner to please him greatly—the voice of the execrable Tinker, speaking hoarsely with the opening of the outer door of the adjoining cabin.
"Well, well, well, Hon! How're you and Baby feeling by this time? Don't you want to get up for dinner?"
His wife's reply was delivered in a thin, high tone
