It’s divil a rap do I care,
It’s divil a rap do I care,
As long as a drap is left, is left,
In the old demijohn next mornin’.
“That reminds me,” said Cap Hanks, “there’s a demijohn under my bunk, Pat; go get it. The boys need a drop to keep ’em awake to-day.”
“I’m off,” said Pat, jogging away to the old shack. He found a gallon jug of choice old rye where the foreman had said, and was soon back to the barn.
“Now do the honors, cook,” said Hanks, “the treat’s on me.”
“You’re a gintleman!” said Pat, pouring out and passing round the whisky. When his turn came he took a long drink, rubbing his stomach with his free hand the while, then smacking his lips, he raised his eyes and said solemnly, “Hiven at last.”
When the laughter that greeted Pat’s performance subsided, Jim said, “You’d better watch out, Dicky, or Teddy here will be leadin’ you a merry chase after your ranch lassie.”
“Yes,” added Pat; “you know that the loikes of ye can’t talk poetry, and Teddy can.”
“Oh, I’ll risk it; he’s harmless,” returned Dick.
“Don’t you be too sure; you can’t tell how far a toad can jump by his looks,” said Jim dryly; “and remember you promised to make me boss when old Morgan deeds the ranch to you.”
“Hip, hooray!” broke in Pat, “what bloomin’ circus is this a-comin’?” Everybody looked up.