NEXT MORNING THE MUSICIAN awoke beside the cask. He had not a trace of a headache, or any bad feeling, but he made d**k 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 d**k 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 a
