“Faith, my legs an’t better than yours,” answered the Irishman, patting his knee with a kind of angry gesture. And for the first time we perceived that the legs of both of them were shockingly swollen.
“If we could only meet with the Welsh Indians or a gold mine,” resumed the short man.
“Botheration,” exclaimed his irascible companion. “Bother them all—the Welsh Indians and the Welsh English.”
We saw that hunger had made the poor fellows rather quarrelsome, so we kindly interfered with a tremendous war-whoop. The fat one closed his eyes and allowed himself to fall down, while his fellow in misfortune rose up in spite of the state of his legs.
“Come,” roared he, “come, ye rascally red devils, do your worst without marcy, for I am lame and hungry.”
There was something noble in his words and pathetic in the I action. Roche, putting his hand on his shoulder, whispered some Irish words in his ear, and the poor fellow almost cut a caper. “Faith,” he said, “if you are not a Cork boy you are the devil; but devil or no, for the sake of the old country, give us something to eat—to me and that poor Welsh dreamer. I fear your hellish yell has taken the life out of him.”
Such was not the case. At the words “something to eat,” the fellow opened his eyes with a stare, and exclaimed—
“The Welsh Indians, by St. David!”
We answered him with a roar of merriment that rather confused him, and his companion answered—
“Ay! Welsh Indians or Irish Indians, for what I know. Get up, will ye, ye lump of flesh, and politely tell the gentlemen that we have tasted nothing for the last three days.”