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"Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't red. "'Wather! sez he; 'I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day! "He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an' it fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy undher the Sargint. "'Fwhat's yonder? sez he.
Then, sure, ye've got the makin's av a sailor in yez afther all, as Misther Mackay aid whin he foorst clapped eyes on ye. An', sure, it's now me toorn to be afther axin' quistions, me bhoy don't ye feel peckish loike?" "Peckish?" I echoed, unable to understand him. "Now, don't go on loike an omadhawn, an' make me angry, as ye did at foorst," he cried. "I mane are yez houngry?
Here's the bhoy that's afraid to ate an eyester fur fear av hurtin' the baste, an' that's goin' to hump Marahemo down to the farrum, aal so bould an' gay! Shure now, thim's the shouldhers that can do that same!" After a brief, friendly passage of arms between the two, the Saint continued hotly
Into Redmond's mind sunk into a deep oblivion of dreamy, chaotic thought came again Slavin's words: "Shtudy thim picthures, bhoy! an', by an' large ye have th' man himsilf" Soon, too, he slept; and into his fitful slumbers drifted a ridiculously disturbing dream.
But, to my especial friend the boatswain the end of the contest was now a foregone conclusion and victory assured to me. "Bedad, me bhoy," he whispered in my ear as he prepared me for what turned out to be the final round of the battle, "that last dhroive av yourn wor loike the kick av a horse, or a pony anyhow! One more brace av them one-twos, Misther Gray-ham, an' he'll be kilt an' done wid!"
He strook him! screeches out Scrub Greene, who was always a lawyer; an' some of the men tuk up the shoutin'. "'Peg out that man! sez me orf'cer bhoy, niver losin' his timper; an' the non-coms wint in and pegged out Scrub Greene by the side av Peg Barney. "I cud see that the draf' was comin' roun'. The men stud not knowin' fwhat to do. "'Get to your tents! sez me orf'cer bhoy.
Could I tell Ortheris anything that he did not know of the pleasures of his life? I was not a Chaplain nor a Subaltern, and Ortheris had a right to speak as he thought fit. "Let him run, Mulvaney," I said. "It's the beer." "'No! 'Tisn't the beer," said Mulvaney. "I know fwhat's comin'. He's tuk this way now an' agin, an' it's bad it's bad for I'm fond av the bhoy."
"Me an' Jamie wor pirta sack people, purty damned rough, too, but yer Ma was a piece ov fine linen frum th' day she walked down this road wi' yer Dah till this minit whin she's waitin' fur ye in the corner. Ivery Sunday I've gone in jist t' hai a crack wi' 'er an' d' ye know, bhoy, I got out o' that crack somethin' good fur th' week.
As he said this he gradually fell back on the cushion he was resting against, and his eyes closed. Captain Applegarth and I both thought him dead. Not so, however, Garry O'Neil. "Sure, he's ounly fainted," exclaimed the Irishman; "run, Dick, me bhoy, an' say if there's sich a thing as a stooard's pantry knockin' about anywheres in those latituodes, wid a dhrop of water convanient.
I'll not be so indelicate as to ax yer name. Fwhat they call ye will be enough." The other laughed. "My name is Joe Brannin. They call me Texas Joe Tex, for short." "Good bhoy, Tex! Ye look the divil av a lot like a red herrin', but that's not sich a bad fish, an' ye have the right flavor. How could ye help ut? Brannin an' Texas is handles to pull a man through hell wid.
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