“Be jabers, I'd like to hev the squazin of him, me-silf,” said a burly Irishman.
“They'd better spill a leettle smellin' stuff on the pesky animal, or he'll spile before mornin',” chimed in a Yankee.
After sundry remarks, at the exquisite's expense, and considerable confusion, all were duly ticketed for the night, and commenced piling themselves away like pledges in a pawnbroker's shop. Jonathan and the Irishman carelessly spread themselves upon a couple of long cane-bottomed settees, which occupied the centre of the cabin, and, in a very brief space of time, the company hushed into silence, save an occasional short blessing bestowed upon the short berths. When all appeared to have dropped into forgetfulness, the head of a way-passenger was thrust into the cabin entrance, with the inquiry—
“Is there any berths here?”
“Sure, this is the gintlemen's cabin,” answered the Irishman.
“Well, I want to know if there's any berths here?” reiterated the inquirer.
“Divil a chance for wan here,” was the response; “don't I tell ye this is the gintlemen's cabin?”
This conversation partially aroused the sleepers, who inquired of the Emeralder what was the row?
“Some botherin' docthur,” was the sleepily muttered reply.
All soon again relapsed into quiet;—snore began to answer snore, in “high and boastful blowing,” and I turned my back to the lamp for the purpose of making a somnolent effort, individually. After tossing and turning for some time, I found that the plentiful supper taken at Lockport had entered a veto against sleep for me, and every effort failed to accomplish more than a drowsy lethargy, which still left the senses partially awake. A strange bumping noise aided to keep me in this state, and I was labouring to assign a cause for the sound, when a voice distinctly cried out—