She was about five feet ten inches and a half in height, broad-shouldered and big-armed, and was as coarse, freckled, bloated with gin and foul-mouthed as any woman could have possibly been.
“Now see here, Sal,” put in Cheeky Charley, in coaxing tones, “yer hain’t got no sort o’ cause to git talkin’ in that shape, for I want to git spliced real bad. Give us yer paw, old gal.”
“I’m here, my jolly young galoot,” said the blushing bride, and covered his ordinary sort of hand with her immense paw; “see here, you red and white cusses, I want yer all to know as how this hitches me to this galoot, for as long as we ’gree to hang together in this here vale o’ tears.”
“Hear ye, hear ye,” roared Cheeky Charley, in imitation of an Inspector of Election, “this is to let you know as how this here female is my wife, and the cuss what tramples on her has got to trample on me, he has by glory, and when any son of a gun spits in her face, he’s got to lam one of the very worst galoots in America. Friends, let’s take a drink.”
Well, perhaps the red-skin portion of the wedding guests didn’t understand all about it, but they certainly knew when they were asked to take a drink.
They were marched up to the barrels that stood on the side of the clearing, and drank to the health of bridegroom and bride.
“Here you are,” cried Cheeky Charley, marching up to the musicians with a tin pan half-filled with brandy; “drink hearty, for you know yer welcome, by thunder!”
“Guess so, mas’r,” said Pomp, and he put his banjo down, and then did likewise with a pint of the liquor.
“For the love o’ pace howld on, ye little black divil,” roared Barney, as the tin pan went higher and higher. “Musha, my gad, an’ do ye think I have no mouth at all? Have the extrame nateness to hand over that sauce-pan, av ye plase.”
“Only had a tooffull,” said Pomp. “Dat’s good stuff.”