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"Hey, you, Kwaque, go fetch 'm two fella bottle of beer stop 'm along icey-chestis," he commanded in his most peremptory manner. Kwaque looked beseechingly, but did not stir. Nor did he stir at a harsher repetition of the order. "My word!" the steward bullied. "Suppose 'm you no fetch 'm beer close up, I knock 'm eight bells 'n 'a dog-watch onta you.
His lips stammered and halted in the making of noiseless whispers, as, with corrugated brows of puzzlement, he addressed the steward: "Marster, what name stop 'm along that fella dog?" "Killeny Boy, you kinky-head man-eater, Killeny Boy, Killeny Boy," Dag Daughtry murmured drowsily. "Kwaque, you black blood-drinker, run n' fetch 'm one fella bottle stop 'm along icey-chestis."
An' remember, God loves the Irish Kwaque! Go fetch 'm two bottle beer fella stop 'm along icey-chestis! Why, the very mug of you, my lad, sticks out Irish all over it." 'Tis well I'm wise to your insidyous, snugglin', heart-stealin' ways. I'll have ye know my heart's impervious. 'Tis soaked too long this many a day in beer. I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin' you.
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