“A stim, bad luck to you; don’t you know English? Hand me the hot water. Have you that down yet?”
“Yes. Pray proceed.”
“The Fifth Division was orthered up, bekase they were fighting chaps; the Eighty-eighth was among them; the Rangers—Oh, upon my soul, we must drink the Rangers! Here, devil a one o’ me will go on till we give them all the honors—Hip!—begin.”
“Hip!” sighed the luckless editor, as he rose from his chair, obedient to the command.
“Hurra! hurra! hurra! Well done! There’s stuff in you yet, ould foolscap! The little bottle’s empty; ring again, if ye plaze.
‘Oh, Father Magan
Was a beautiful man,
But a bit of a rogue, a bit of a rogue!
He was just six feet high,
Had a cast in his eye,
And an illigint brogue, an illigint brogue!
‘He was born in Killarney,
And reared up in blarney—’
“Arrah, don’t be looking miserable and dissolute that way. Sure, I’m only screwing myself up for you; besides, you can print the song av you like. It’s a sweet tune, ‘Teddy, you Gander,’”
“Really, Mr. Free, I see no prospect of our ever getting done.”
“The saints in Heaven forbid!” interrupted Mike, piously; “the evening’s young, and drink plenty. Here now, make ready!”
The editor once more made a gesture of preparation.