“Saints above! child, howld your hand stiddy,” Terry shouted. “’Tis your hood-shtrings an’ your coat as is gettin’ all that precious elixir, an’ iv’ry dhrop av it a jool.”
“Oh, take it away very quick,” she gasped. “I’m sorry to spill it, but it’s most dreffly horrid.”
“Aisy, me darlint, aisy! There’s no accountin’ fer tastes, as the ould woman said when she kissed her cow. It’s a quare wurrld this is; but sure, ’tis a most glorious dispinsation av Providince that we don’t all be thinkin’ alike. See! I’ll have to take your share as well as me own. An’ first, here’s me hand on me heart to your toast, an’ the honor av it; ’tis proud I am at this minnit, an’ next, here’s to ye—shtandin’—here’s to the best thing a man can have in this wurrld,—the love av a little child.”
She stood up facing him, and bowed as he had done.
“Here’s me hand on me heart to your toast,” she echoed, “an’ the honor of it, ’tis proud I am at this minute.”
Then she climbed back on the seat and watched him with round eyes as he tilted his head very far back and took a deep draught. If his attack on the sandwiches had astonished her, this new conduct awakened all her wonder. As he took the bottle from his lips he uttered a sigh which immediately slipped into a loud guffaw at sight of her expression.
“You can’t like it,” she shuddered.
“I’m not quarrellin’ wid the taste,” he answered, “an’ annyway, ’tis by the docthor’s orders I do be takin’ a dhrop av the crayther, to kape the cold out an’ the warm in. A nip once in jest so often, the wise ould man sez, an’ don’t improve on the occasions, mind ye! But sure, there’s a toast I haven’t yet given, an’ that’s to our next merry meetin’, an’ may it come sooner than ’tis expected.”
He neither looked nor bowed her way; indeed, the words were addressed to his familiar spirits, and his eyes were fixed solely upon what he held in his hand. After a moment he put the bottle back in his breast, and buttoned his coat securely across.
“An’ now to juty, swateheart,” he cried, springing out of the sleigh, “the raypast is over, an’ the horses have gorged thimsilves like magisthrates, the rapaycious gossoons! Come, be shpry, an’ lind a hand wid the pails.”