MARTIN RATTLER. 245

ing aside his hat for the first time, and displaying his
well-known jolly visage, of which the forehead, eyes,
and nose alone survived the general inundation of red
hair, “yell be hungry, I’ve small doubt; so sit ye
down, lad, to supper, and you'll tell me yer story as
ye go along, and afther that I'll tell ye mine, while I
smoke my pipe—the ould cutty, boy, that has comed
through fire and wather, sound as a bell and blacker
than iver !”

The Baron held up the well-known instrument of
fumigation, as he spoke, in triumph.

Supper was superb. There were venison steaks,
armadillo cutlets, tapir hash, iguana pie, and an im-
mense variety of fruits and vegetables, that would have
served a dozen men, besides cakes and splendid coffee.

“You live well here, Barney—I beg pardon, Baron
Fagoni,” said Martin, during a pause in their meal;
“how in the world did you come by that name ?”

Barney winked expressively. “Ah, boy, I wish I
may niver have a worse. Ye see, when I first comed
here, about four months ago, I found that the mine
was owned by an Irish gintleman; an’, like all the
race, he’s a trump. He took to me at wance when
he hear’d my voice, and then he took more to me
when he comed to know me character; and says he

to me wan day, ‘ Barney,’ says he, ‘I’m gettin’ tired