His repertory was small: the
chords of "Home, Sweet Home" fell under his fingers;
and when he had played the symphony, he instinctively
raised up his voice. "Be it never so 'umble, there's
no plyce like 'ome," he sang. The last word was still
upon his lips, when the instrument was snatched from
him and dashed into the fire; and he turned with a cry
to look into the furious countenance of Mac.
"I'll be damned if I stand this!" cried the captain,
leaping up belligerent.
"I told ye I was a voilent man," said Mac, with a
movement of deprecation very surprising in one of his
character. "Why don't he give me a chance then?
Haven't we enough to bear the way we are?" And to the
wonder and dismay of all, the man choked upon a sob.
"It's ashamed of meself I am," he said presently, his
Irish accent twenty-fold increased. "I ask all your
pardons for me voilence; and especially the little
man's, who is a harmless craytur, and here's me hand
to'm, if he'll condescind to take me by 't."
So this scene of barbarity and sentimentalism passed
off, leaving behind strange and incongruous
impressions.
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