"No," says Benham, "I prefer tea."
"Lorrd, now! look at that!"
"Drink spirit, and it's all very fine and reviving for a few minutes; but a man can't work on it."
"It's the wan thing, sorr," says O'Flynn with solemnity—"it's the wan thing on the top o' God's futstool that makes me feel I cud wurruk."
"Not in this climate; and you're safe to take cold in the reaction."
"Cowld is ut? Faith, ye'll be tellin' us Mr. Schiff got his toes froze wid settin' too clost be the foire."
"You don't seriously mean you go on the trail without any alcohol?" asks the Colonel.
"No, I don't go without, but I keep it on the outside of me, unless I have an accident."
Salmon P. studied the trader with curiosity. A man with seven magnificent dogs and a native servant, and the finest furs he'd ever seen—here was either a capitalist from the outside or a man who had struck it rich "on the inside."
"Been in long?"