“You’ll nae dislike a toothfu’ of something warm, Major,” said he, presenting a glass to O’Shaughnessy; “and if ye’ll permit me, Mr. O’Mealey, to help you—”
“A thousand thanks, Doctor; but I fear a broken arm—”
“There’s naething in the whiskey to prevent the proper formation of callus.”
“By the rock of Cashel, it never made any one callous,” said O’Shaughnessy, mistaking the import of the phrase.
“Ye are nae drinking frae the flask?” said the doctor, turning in some agitation towards Quill.
“Devil a bit, my darling. I’ve a little horn convaniency here, that holds half-a-pint, nice measure.”
I don’t imagine that our worthy friend participated in Quill’s admiration of the “convaniency,” for he added, in a dry tone:—
“Ye may as weel tak your liquor frae a glass, like a Christian, as stick your nose in a coo’s horn.”
“By my conscience, you’re no small judge of spirits, wherever you learned it,” said the major; “it’s like Islay malt!”
“I was aye reckoned a gude ane,” said the doctor, “and my mither’s brither Caimbogie had na his like in the north country. Ye may be heerd tell what he aince said to the Duchess of Argyle, when she sent for him to taste her claret.”