Phil liked the weak wines of his native land, but he did not care for the poisonous decoctions of be found in such places.
“I am not thirsty,” he said.
“Yes, you are; here, give this boy a glass of brandy.”
“I do not want it,” said Phil.
“You won’t drink with us,” exclaimed the sailor, who had then enough to be quarrelsome. “Then I’ll make you;” and he brought down his fist so heavily upon the counter as to make the glasses rattle. “Then I’ll make you. Here, give me a glass, and I’ll pour it down his throat.”
The fiddler was frightened at his vehemence, and darted to the door. But the sailor was too quick for him. Overtaking Phil, he dragged him back with a rough grasp, and held out his hand for the glass. But an unexpected friend now turned up.
“Oh, let the boy go, Jack,” said a fellow sailor. “If he don’t want to drink, don’t force him.”
But his persecutor was made ugly by his potations, and swore that Phil should drink before he left the barroom.
“That he shall not,” said his new friend.
“Who is to prevent it?” demanded Jack, fiercely.