“There’s something in what you say, Will. And now, on reflection, I’m not so sure that I’ll take further trouble about the fellow, unless he insist on it; which he may not, seeing he’s unquestionably base coin—as you say, a blackguard. He appears a sort of Californian bravo; and if we hadn’t secured his pistol, I suppose he’d have done some shooting with it. Well, we’ll see whether he comes to reclaim it. If he don’t, I shall have to send it to him. Otherwise, he may have us up before one of these duelling justices on a charge of robbing him!”
“Ha, ha, ha! That would be a rare joke; an appropriate ending to our day’s fun.”
“Quite the contrary. It might be serious, if it should reach the ears of Bracebridge. The old disciplinarian would never believe but that we’d been in the wrong—taken the fellow’s pistol from him for a lark, or something of that sort. True, we could have the thing explained, both to the San Francisco magistrate, and the frigate’s captain; but not without an exposure of names and circumstances. That, though it might be proper enough, would be anything but a pleasant finale to our day’s fun, as you call it.”
“Well, I know what will,” rejoins Cadwallader, after listening patiently to his comrade’s explanatory speech, “and that’s a glass of something good to drink. Those sweet Spanish wines of Don Gregorio have made me thirsty as a fish. Besides, parting with dear Iñez has got my heart down, and I need something to stir it up again.”
“All right, my hearty!” exclaims Crozier; for the jest’s sake, talking sailor-slang—“I’m with you in that way. For this day at least we’ve had enough of war, and, shall I say, women?”
“No—no!” protests Cadwallader; “that would be an ungallant speech, after what’s passed. We could never have enough of them—at least, not I.”
“Why, Will, we’ve grown wonderfully sentimental, and in such a short time! Well, let’s drop the subject of woman, and end our day with the third of three w’s—wine.”
“Agreed!” responds the young Welshman. “But, for my part, I’d prefer ending it with a different tipple, which has also a w for its initial letter—that’s whisky. If we could only get a glass of good Scotch or Irish malt in this mushroom city, it would make a new man of me—which just now I need making. As I tell you, Ned, my heart’s down—dead down to the heels of my boots. I can’t say why, but there it is; and there I suppose, it’ll stay, unless Dutch courage come to the rescue.”
“Well, you’ll soon have an opportunity of getting that. As you see, we are in the suburbs of this grand city, partly constructed of canvas; where, though food may be scarce, and raiment scanty, there’s liquor in abundance. In the Parker House, which is, I believe, its best hotel, we’ll be sure of finding almost every beverage brewed upon the earth—among them your favourite whisky, and mine—‘Bass’s Bitter.’”
“Again the Spanish saw, ‘Cada uno a su gusto,’ as just now my sweetheart said, after I had kissed the dear girl six times in succession. But let us step out.”