"Is it ayting ye mane, when there's three gallons of gin in the house?" demanded Captain O' Blunderbuss, with something like indignation in his tone and manner.
"Well, but the wife and the children can't live upon gin, Captain," observed Frank; "even though the servants should have no objection."
"Not live upon gin, me boy!" vociferated Captain O'Blunderbuss, in a state of astonishment as complete and unfeigned as if some one had just shown him his own name in the Army List, or presented him with the title-deeds of his often vaunted Irish estates: "not live upon gin, Misther Curtis!" he repeated, surveying Frank as if this young gentleman were actually taking leave of his senses. "Show me the discontended mortal, my frind, that says he won't live upon gin, and I'll jest——"
"Just what?" asked Frank, somewhat dismayed at this irascibility on the part of his companion.
"I'll skin him—by the holy poker-r!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss, rapping his clenched fist violently upon the table.
There was a long pause, during which the two gentlemen emptied and refilled their glasses.
"Be the way, me boy," suddenly exclaimed the Captain, as if an idea had just struck him, "is that old uncle of yours in town at present?"
"Yes: he came back some days ago, I understand," replied Frank.
"D'ye think he'd bleed?" asked the Captain: "for 'tis supplies to carry on the war-r in an iligant style for a long time to come, that we want; since now that we're once on a frindly footing together, Curtis, I'm not the boy to desert ye in your throubles."
He might have added that he would stick to Mr. and Mrs. Curtis so long as they had a bottle of spirits to give, or a shilling to lend him.