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But the fellow would permit no argument, his quick temper caught fire instantly at the merest suggestion of remonstrance on my part, and he cut me short by exclaiming furiously: "Howly Sailor! Phwhat's the use av' talkin' about it? Ye've got to go below, and that's all there is about it. Will ye go p'aceably, or will I have to call some of the hands aft to make ye go?"
No, my bhoy; they came out before you could say Jack Robinson. Now, I shimply ask you, d'you call that dentistry?" Fixing his eyes on Shelton's collar, which had the misfortune to be high and clean, he resumed with drunken scorn: "Ut's the same all over this pharisaical counthry. Talk of high morality and Anglo-Shaxon civilisation! The world was never at such low ebb! Phwhat's all this morality?
Ut stinks of the shop. Look at the condition of Art in this counthry! look at the fools you see upon th' stage! look at the pictures and books that sell! I know what I'm talking about, though I am a sandwich man. Phwhat's the secret of ut all? Shop, my bhoy! Ut don't pay to go below a certain depth! Scratch the skin, but pierce ut Oh! dear, no! We hate to see the blood fly, eh?"
"Och! git out wid you! Bad luck to yer picther! In tin days it's Murtagh Chane that'll ayther be takin' his tay in purgathory or atin' betther than black banes in some other part of the world." "No entiende," repeated the Mexican as before. "Tin days, indade! Sure we'd be did wid hunger in half the time. We want the banes now." "Que quiere?" "Phwhat's that he sez, Raowl?" inquired Chane sharply.
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