Dick jumped up choking and sputtering and swearing at his tormentor, who stood laughing over his victim’s discomfiture.
“It’s a hill of a racket ye’re makin’,” said Pat Kelsey, the cook; “can’t ye let a feller slape a little?”
“Oh, cut out your sleepin’; let’s do some celebratin’. Have you forgotten it’s the glorious Fourth of July? Come, have a drink with me, Pat.” He dashed a cup of water into the waking Irishman’s face.
“Ye dirty son of a Yankee!” blurted Pat, jumping up, and making for the joker; “it’s auld Ireland that can lick you, if auld England didn’t.”
“Stop, or I’ll shoot,” said Jim, jerking a flask of whisky out of his hip pocket, and pointing it at the wrathful cook.
“Be jabers, if it’s loaded,” said Pat, checking himself, “I’ll give up.”
He grabbed the bottle out of Jim’s hand, uncorked it, and said, “Here’s to Ameriky, the land that Saint Patrick Henry didicated to liberty.” Then he took a long drink and smacked his lips.
The rest of the boys, roused by the noise, were laughing over the fun.
“Pass the bottle around, Pat,” said Jim; “drink hearty, boys.”
Every one but Dan Miller and Fred Benton took a drink; they passed the bottle on with thanks.