Patrick Grady was the soul of hospitality. He was not to be put off with a mere shake of the hand, not he—telegrams meant nothing now-a-days, he said, everybody sent them. No cause for alarm. They must stop and have a glass of mountain dew.
Aspel was resolute, however; he would not sit down, though he had no objection to the mountain dew. Accordingly, the bottle was produced, and a full glass was poured out for Aspel, who quaffed off the pure spirit with a free-and-easy toss and smack of the lips, that might have rendered one of the beery old sea-kings envious.
“No, sur, I thank ye,” said Mike, when a similar glass was offered to him.
“What! ye haven’t taken the pledge, have ye?” said Grady.
“No, sur; but I’ve had three glasses already on me walk, an’ that’s as much as I can rightly carry.”
“Nonsense, Mike. You’ve a stiff climb before you—here, take it off.”
The facile postman did take it off without further remonstrance.
“Have a dhrop, Phil?”
“No, thank ee,” said Phil, firmly, but without giving a reason for declining.
Being a boy, he was not pressed to drink, and the party left the house. A short distance farther on the road forked, and here the post-runner turned off to the right, taking the path which led towards the hill whose rugged shoulder he had yet to scale.