"Be jabers, boys, go on!" said Captain Flannigan; "I havn't seen a dacent fight for a twelvemonth, barring a skirmish in which I meself was somewhat interested. You may desarn traces of it here." And, suiting the action to the word, he pointed to his eye, which was slightly discolored. "I had an argument with Bill Duffy yesterday, and he became so excited he emphasized his remarks by giving me a blow in the eye; but I soon demonstrated, to his complate satisfaction, that if he came to that style of argument I could make two points to his one, and put them in much more emphatically. He has kept to his room since to ponder the matter over. Now, boys, the best thing you can do is to take a walk out of town, and settle the matter dacently; but don't stop here, scolding like a couple of fishwives. Or put it off now and settle it after—there would be no nade for it to go any farther."
"As far as I am concerned, I am willing to settle it now or any other time," said Dalton.
Judge McGullet, who had been quietly listening, now spoke.
"I should think," he said, "you fellows have exhibited enough foolishness for one scene; it is about time for a change. I did not think you were capable of making such asses of yourselves. You were saying, Sheriff, before you entered into your extremely interesting conversation with Dalton, that the teetotalers were about to try and carry the Dunkin Act in this county. Well, if you desire to ensure them complete success, just have a brawl, and have the present company figuring in the papers as either participating in the row or of being present when it took place. You know they are extremely verdant, as well as what you term fanatical, and they are not likely to make any capital out of such a muss! Come, now, sit down, and act like rational beings."
The two men sank into their seats, but grumbling as they did, and each muttering he would yet have satisfaction.
"Boys, will yez just kape quiet for a minute, until I sing a song? and then the fellow that won't drink to the health of every man present, and be willing to shake hands with each and every one in this dacent company—well, then, Tim Flannigan will recognize him as a friend no more for ever!"
"Come, Rivers, fill up our glasses, and prove that your name is not a misnomer, by furnishing this thirsty crowd with something to drink."
Rivers, after taking their orders, brought in the liquor, and then they all clamored for Flannigan to give them his song. "And we want you to give us one of your own, Captain."
"Yes, yes, Captain," they all shouted; "give us a war song of your own composition."
Now this was something that would please Flannigan exceedingly, for he imagined he was quite a poet. He had written some wretched doggerel, in which he had endeavored to embody his thoughts of persons and of personal experiences during the war. He actually thought the wretched stuff was equal to the best efforts of "Tom" Moore. And if any one wished especially to flatter him he would best accomplish his purpose by asking him to sing one of his own songs. Those who knew him were well aware of this, and often enjoyed a good laugh at the expense of his vanity. This accounts for the clamorous call he received to give them a song of his own composition.