CHAPTER LIX. — HOW A SURPRISE-PARTY IS VERY MUCH SURPRISED.
During these remarks "His Majesty" had been fumbling, with a thoughtful expression, in his coat-pocket, as though trying to extricate something, the bulk of which prevented it from being drawn forth without some difficulty; and as he tugged and fumbled he began to speak.
"I came here," said he, "on a surprise-party, an' begorra I niver was so surprised in my loife, so I wasn't. An' be the same token, as it's a long march we've had, an' as we've got to wait here an hour or so, an' as we're on the ave av an attack an' may niver live to see another day, shure there's ivery raison in loife"—and with this he fumbled still more vigorously in his pocket—"why"—he gave a thrust and a pull—"why we should all wet our whistles"—he gave a series of violent twists—"wid a dhrop av somethin' warrum;" and with this he succeeded in getting the object of his attempts extricated from his pocket, and proudly displayed before the eyes of the company a black junk-bottle.
The others looked at this with some surprise, but no other feeling. The whole proceeding seemed to them to show an ill-timed levity; and if it was serious, it certainly seemed very bad taste. But "His Royal Majesty" was in a very gracious mood, and continued to run on in his most gay and affable strain. He wandered round among the company and offered the bottle to each in turn. When they all refused he seemed both surprised and hurt.
"Shure it's whiskey, so it is," he said, as though that would remove all objections; but this information did not produce any effect.
"Perhaps it's a tumbler ye'll be wantin'," said he. "Well, well, we're sorry we haven't got one; but if ye'll take a taste out av the bottle ye'll foind it moighty convaynient."
Here the monarch paused, and, raising the bottle to his own royal lips, took a long draught. As he swallowed the liquid his eyes closed and his face assumed an expression of rapture. He then offered it to all once more, and mourned over them because they refused.
"Oh, but it's the divoine dhrink!" said he. Then he grew merrier, and began to sing:
"Oh, Shakspeare, Homer, an' all the poets
Have sung for ages the praise av woine;
But if they iver had tasted whiskey,
They'd have called it the only dhrink divoine.
"Oh, wud ye have a receipt for toddy?
Av whiskey ye take a quart, I think;
Thin out av a pint av bilin' wather
Ivery dhrop ye add will spile the dhrink!"