Barney looked at him in surprise.
“Phwat the divil ails yez!” he cried. “Shure are yez sick?”
“N—no, sah!” replied the dazed coon, “but—did yo’ drink all dat whisky roight down an’——”
“Phwat the divil did yez expict me to do? Did yez want a sip yersilf?”
“N—no, sah!” spluttered the coon, “but—but——”
He said no more, but made his way down the stairs slowly to the galley. There he scratched his woolly pate and muttered:
“On mah wo’d I neber heerd ob sich a mouf an’ stummick as dat I’ishman hab got. I done fink he make a good meal on window glass any time he feel laike it.”
But Barney had tasted the most fiery of liquors too many times to mind a little thing like this. He knew from the taste that the darky had doctored the liquor, and he suspected what it was.
So he chuckled to himself.
“Begorra, the coon thought he had me solid that toime. But fer a fact he got badly left, fer divil a bit do I moind a little foire in the crather.”