“Well, Sir,” said he, tossing off a fresh tumbler of undiluted whisky, “you’re a goin’ to hear it—but ‘don’t be impatient,’ as the bush squirrel said to the young mouse, ‘I’ve got your mother in my mouth, but I’ll eat you presently.’ Here’s how it is. When you was makin’ that chair, you had in your mind some old-fashioned, ramshackle, nine-cornered machine you had seen of your father’s, or your grandfather’s, and nothin’ would persuade you but to imitate that. It was wisdom of your ancestors—but we never had no ancestors. We didn’t begin the world with fifty cranks in our head about how some helpless old critter ten centuries back would ha’ tried to do this, or to mend that. There’s the difference between us, Sir; and mind my words, when we’ve got a ten-inch gun that’ll send a shot from Long Island to the Battery Point, you Britishers will be a going back to bows and arrows, and a paintin’your bodies blue, like your ancestors.”
“The picture is not flattering,” said Luttrell, gravely. “And now, Sir, let us talk of something more nearly interesting to us. I am informed by my correspondent that you have seen the catalogue of my small collection, and desire to examine the objects themselves.”
“If that’s a home brew, Stranger, it does you more credit than the chair,” said Mr. Dodge, smacking his lips after his third tumbler of whisky.
“I am proud to have anything worth offering you, Sir.”
“If you’ve a barrel or two; of that spirit to dispose of, we’ll deal, Sir, that’s a fact;” and Mr. Dodge emptied the bottle into his glass.
“I’m not certain whether my resources extend so far, but if they do, the whisky is much at your service, and I will feel honoured if you accept it.”
“Now for the gimcracks—let’s see ‘em,” said Mr. Dodge, as though eager to show how promptly he could respond to a graceful or generous action.
“Some of the gimcracks are here before you,” said Luttrell, making a rather awkward attempt to smile, as he repeated the word. “This curiously misshapen attempt at a figure is, I have every reason to believe, an image of the idol ‘Crom,’ the object of worship to the Irish in the days of Paganism. You see he holds in his hand a sort of weapon like a fork.”