“Rum an' gum, Tuck; wattle you have, sir?”
“Oh—I don't know,” hesitated Wilbur; “give me a mild Manhattan.”
While the drinks were being mixed the brown sweater called Wilbur's attention to a fighting head-dress from the Marquesas that was hung on the wall over the free-lunch counter and opposite the bar. Wilbur turned about to look at it, and remained so, his back to the barkeeper, till the latter told them their drinks were ready.
“Well, mate, here's big blocks an' taut hawse-pipes,” said the brown sweater cordially.
“Your very good health,” returned Wilbur.
The brown sweater wiped a thin mustache in the hollow of his palm, and wiped that palm upon his trouser leg.
“Yessir,” he continued, once more facing the Marquesas head-dress. “Yessir, they're queer game down there.”
“In the Marquesas Islands, you mean?” said Wilbur.
“Yessir, they're queer game. When they ain't tattoin' theirselves with Scripture tex's they git from the missionaries, they're pullin' out the hairs all over their bodies with two clam-shells. Hair by hair, y' understan'?”
“Pull'n out 'er hair?” said Wilbur, wondering what was the matter with his tongue.