“Begorrah, yer nose is wrong, sor, and the doctor’s roight, as he always is, sor, beggin’ yer pardon,” said the culprit, confessing his offence in his anxiety to stand up for the medical insight of the chief, with whom he had served before and whose professional pride he knew how to work upon. “It was rhum, sure enough.”
“You rascal!” shouted out Dr Nettleby. “Why, not a moment ago you swore you hadn’t tasted a drop of anything but tea alone since yesterday.”
“Faith, yer honner, I didn’t know it wor rhum till too late, sor. I sware, sor, I droonk it out av a taypot.”
“Out of a teapot, man?”
“Yis, sor, I’ll till yer honner how it wor, sure,” explained the wily fellow, who could tell from the doctor’s change of tone that his offence was condoned and that he need fear no worse consequences now than one of his usual lectures, which only went in at one ear and out at the other, as Dr Nettleby himself said. “I wint over to the rendywoo last noight be the cap’en’s orders, sor, fur to say if there wor any more hands awaitin’ to jine. Faith an’ there I mates me wife’s first cousin, Bridget O’Halloran, as is merried now be the same token to Sargint Lintstock.”
“Sergeant Lintstock?”
“Ay, sor, that same, which makes him, sure, me second cousin once removed, though, faith, he’s me soupayrior orfiser! But, as I were a-tellin’ ye, sor, in comes Bridget whilst I were talkin’ to the jintleman behoind the bar at the rendywoo. I were jist axin’ what the cap’en tells me to axe him; an’ ‘Mike,’ says she, cordial like, ‘have a partin’ glass wid me fur the sake of the ould country as ye’re abut to lave.’
“‘Faith an’ that’s more nor I dare, Bridget,’ says I. ‘I promist the docthor, sure, I wouldn’t touch another dhrop o’ sperrits for the nixt four-an’-twenty hours, as I’m a livin’ sinner!’
“‘But I don’t want ye to dhrink sperrits,’ says she. ‘Me an’ me frind Mistress Wilkins here is jist havin’ a cup of tay, sure; an’ axes ye to jine us, that’s all!’
“‘Faith I’m not the bhoy fur to disobleege the ladies,’ says I, ‘ye can give us a cup, if that’s all ye wants me fur to do.’ Wid that, Bridget ups with the taypot, a little brown one it wor, sure, by the same token, an’ pours me out a cupful in a mug that lay handy sure on the counther, which I drinks to the hilth of her an’ Missis Wilkins as wor standin’ by. It wor right-down beautiful tay; so I has another one to the hilth of Bridget’s husband the sarjint, an’ thin another, that wor a little one faith! to the hilth of the babby; an’, begorrah, sor, I rimimbers no more till this mornin’ whin I fales so bad wid the rheumatics as I couldn’t lift me hid out of me hammock. The sarjint says I wor droonk, but I worn’t, sor; though somehows or t’other I thinks it must have been rhum I wor drinkin’ at the rendywoo an’ not tay as Bridget telled me at the toime, sayin’ it wor good fur the stummick an’ wud kape the cowld out!”