“Hm! not very comfortable,” said Massey, “for the poor women to be framed like that.”
“Admitted; but what else can we do?” said Hayward. “It would risk our lives to sleep without covering of any kind in such cold weather, and with sleet falling as it does now. Better have the sheet spread upon us than merely over our heads. So now let’s kindle another fire, and do you arrange our couch, Bob.”
In spite of the cold and the sleet, things looked much more cosy than persons unacquainted with “roughing it” could believe possible, and they became comparatively happy when the couch was spread, and they were seated under the sheltering tree, with the fire blazing and crackling in front of them, suffusing their faces and persons and the leaf-canopy overhead with a deep red glare, that contrasted well with the ebony-black surroundings, while a rich odour of pork soup exhaled from the baling-dish.
“Ah! now there’s nothin’ wantin’ to produce parfit felicity but a pipe,” said O’Connor with a sigh.
“That’s so, lad,” assented Tomlin, echoing the sigh, and feeling in his pocket from force of habit, though he knew too well that nothing was to be found there.
“Here, Terrence,” said Massey, handing him an empty pipe, at the same time asking him to shut his eyes and draw, and try to imagine himself smoking, but Terrence shook his head.
“I couldn’t do that, Bob,” he said, “but I’ll sing ye a stave in praise o’ the weed.”
Without waiting for permission, the jovial Irishman at once began:
“Oh! it’s ’baccy as is my chief joy,
At mornin’, noon and night;
An’ it’s verily my belief, boy,
That I love it with all my might.
If your liver an’ lungs are squeakin’,
An’ your head is growin’ cracky,
There’s nothin’ so sure to kill or cure,
As fumes o’ the strongest ’baccy.”
“If it would improve your voice, Terrence,” observed Mr Mitford, meekly, “I’m sure I wish ye had pounds of it, for it’s that harsh—though, of course, I make no pretence to music myself, but—”