“If you must and will go, I'll give you the yawl,” said Craggs; “and I 'll go with you myself.”
“Spoke like a British Grenadier,” cried Billy, with enthusiasm.
“Carbineer, if the same to you, master,” said the other, quietly; “I never served in the infantry.”
“Tros Tyriusve mihi,” cried Billy; “which is as much as to say,—
“'To storm the skies, or lay siege to the moon,
Give me one of the line, or a heavy dragoon,'
it's the same to me, as the poet says.”
And a low murmur of the company seemed to accord approval to the sentiment.
“I wish you 'd give us a tune, Billy,” said one, coaxingly.
“Or a song would be better,” observed another.
“Faix,” cried a third, “'tis himself could do it, and in Frinch or Latin if ye wanted it.”