"Ay, dir-r-ty--he's always that. He's a dirthy fellow, that thinks his yankee charactur is above all other things."
Nick's countenance became illuminated with an expression nowise akin to that produced by rum, and he fastened on his companion one of his fiery gazes, which occasionally seemed to penetrate to the centre of the object looked at.
"Why pale-face hate one anoder? Why Irishman don't love yankee?"
"Och! love the crathure, is it? You'd betther ask me to love a to'd"--for so Michael would pronounce the word 'toad.' "What is there to love about him, but skin and bone! I'd as soon love a skiliten. Yes--an immortal skiliten."
Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to reflect, like one who had a grave business in contemplation. The Santa Cruz confused his brain, but the Indian never entirely lost his presence of mind; or never, at least, so long as he could either see or walk.
"Don't like him"--rejoined Nick. "Like anybody?"
"To be sure I does--I like the capt'in--och, he's a jontleman--and I likes the missus; she's a laddy--and I likes Miss Beuly, who's a swate young woman--and then there's Miss Maud, who's the delight of my eyes. Fegs, but isn't she a crathure to relish!"
Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the bottom, with all his heart and soul. The Indian did not seem pleased, but he made no answer.
"You've been in the wars then, Nick!" asked the Irishman, after a short pause.
"Yes--Nick been chief ag'in--take scalps."