“No, but I was thinking that that long, red nose of yourn was so full of whiskey that it would burn, and I wanted to make sartin.”
[Chapter XIX.]
How it was Done.
From the very depths of despair, Mickey O’Rooney and Fred Munson were lifted to the most buoyant heights of hope.
“I always took yer for a hoodlum,” growled the scout; “but you’ve just showed yerself a bigger one than I s’posed. Yer orter fetched a lantern with yer, so as to use nights in walking round the country, and looking for folks.”
“Begorrah, if that isn’t the idaa!” responded the Irishman, with mock enthusiasm; “only I was considering wouldn’t it be as well to call out the name of me friends. Ye know what a swate voice I have. When I used to thry and sing in choorch, the ould gintleman always lambasted me for filing the saw on Sunday. But why don’t ye craap forward and extend me yer paw, as the bear said to the man?”
Sut, however, did not move, but retained his crouching position beside the large boulder, speaking in the lowest and most guarded voice:
“It won’t do; we haven’t any time to fool away yerabouts. Is that younker wid yer?”