The Kentuckian laughed.
"Never wasted a day soldiering in my life."
"Oh!"
"Maybe you're wonderin'," said Potts, "why he's a Colonel!"
The Jesuit made a deprecatory gesture, politely disclaiming any such rude curiosity.
"He's from Kentucky, you see;" and the smile went round. "Beyond that, we can't tell you why he's a Colonel unless it's because he ain't a Judge;" and the boss of the camp laughed with the rest, for the Denver man had scored.
By the time they got to the California apricots and boiled rice everybody was feeling pretty comfortable. When, at last, the table was cleared, except for the granite-ware basin full of punch, and when all available cups were mustered and tobacco-pouches came out, a remarkably genial spirit pervaded the company—with three exceptions.
Potts and O'Flynn waited anxiously to sample the punch before giving way to complete satisfaction, and Kaviak was impervious to considerations either of punch or conviviality, being wrapped in slumber on a corner of the buffalo-skin, between Mac's stool and the natives, who also occupied places on the floor.
Upon O'Flynn's first draught he turned to his next neighbour:
"Potts, me bhoy, 'tain't s' bad."