MARTIN RATTLER. 89

Barney, with a deprecatory smile, while he drew a
short black pipe from his pocket, “have ye got sich
a thing as ’baccy in them parts?”

The hermit rose, and going to a small box which
stood in a corner, returned with a quantity of cut
tobacco in one hand, and a cigar not far short of a
foot long in the other! In a few seconds the cigar
was going in full force, like a factory chimney; and
the short black pipe glowed like a miniature furnace,
while its owner seated himself on a low stool, crossed
his arms on his breast, leaned his back against the
door-post, and smiled, as only an Irishman can smile
under such circumstances. The smoke soon formed
a thick cloud, which effectually drove the mosquitoes
out of the hut, and through which Martin, lying in
his hammock, gazed out upon the sunlit orange and
coffee trees, and tall palms with their rich festoons of
creeping plants, and sweet-scented flowers, that clam-
bered over and round the hut and peeped in at the
open door and windows, while he listened to the
hermit, who continued for at least ten minutes to
murmur slowly, between the puffs of his cigar, “ Yes,

I will do it—I will tell you my story.”