“I suppose it’s something that the Mexicans have drapped in to give the agwardenty a flayver. It’s mighty strong anyhow. It’s nothing the worse av that; but it ’ud be sorry drinkin’ alongside a nate dimmyjan of Irish patyeen. Och! mother av Moses! but that’s the raal bayvaridge!”
Here the Irishman shook his head to express with more emphasis his admiration of the native whisky.
“Well, Misther Gowdey,” continued he, “whisky’s whisky at any rate; and if we can’t get the butther, it’s no raison we should refuse the brid; so I’ll thank ye for another small thrifle out of the kig,” and the speaker held out his tin vessel to be replenished.
Gode lifted the keg, and emptied more of its contents into their cups.
“Mon Dieu! what is dis in my cops?” exclaimed he, after a draught.
“Fwhat is it? Let me see. That! Be me sowl! that’s a quare-looking crayter anyhow.”
“Sac–r–r–ré! it is von Texan! von fr–r–og! Dat is de feesh we smell stink. Owah—ah—ah!”
“Oh! holy mother! if here isn’t another in moine! By jabers! it’s a scorpion lizard! Hoach—wach—wach!”
“Ow—ah—ah—ack—ack! Mon Dieu! Oach—ach—! Sac-r! O—ach—ach—o—oa—a—ach!”
“Tare-an-ages! He—ach! the owld doctor has—oach—ack—ack! Blessed Vargin! Ha—he—hoh—ack! Poison! poison!”