'Because you treat me like one,' said he. 'And you treat him like a man.'
'But you should treat him like a gentleman,' said I.
'Well, well, well,' cried the minstrel; 'there is my hand for you, Mr. Sullivan.'
'And there is mine for you,' said Jerry. 'Hand in hand is better than fist to fist at any time.'
'I will defer hearing the remainder of your poem,' said I, 'till you have altered it. But my good friend, do not forget to tell that I inhabit the eastern turret, and to give a full description of it. You might begin thus:
He who would view that east turret aright,
Must go at rosy-finger'd morning bright.'
'Rosy-fingered morning!' cried Jerry. 'Why, how can the morning have rosy fingers?'
'It has not,' answered I. 'The poets only say so by way of ornament.'
'And yet,' cried Jerry, 'if I had said, when I was telling you my history, that I saw a set of red fingers and thumbs rising in the east every morning, I warrant you would have called me a liar, just as you did about that business of the Pacific Ocean.'