“Bah!” was Quintal’s reply, with a look of undisguised contempt.
“Jus-so. ’Xactly my opinion about it. Well, as you won’t sing, I’ll give you a ditty myself.”
Hereupon McCoy struck up a song, which, being deficient in taste, while its execution was defective as well as tuneless, did not seem to produce much effect on Quintal. He bore it with equanimity, until McCoy came to a note so far beyond his powers that he broke into a shriek.
“Come, get some more drink,” growled his comrade, pointing to the still; “it must be ready by this time.”
“Shum more drink!” exclaimed McCoy, with a look of indignant surprise. Then, sliding into a smile of imbecile good-humour, “You shl-’ave-it, my boy, you shl-’ave-it.”
He unfixed the bottle with an unsteady hand, and winking with dreadful solemnity, filled up his companion’s cup. Then he filled his own, and sat down to resume his song. But Quintal could stand no more of it; he ordered his comrade to “stop his noise.”
“Shtop my noise!” exclaimed McCoy, with a look of lofty disdain.
“Yes, stop it, an’ let’s talk.”
“Well, I’m w–willin’ t’ talk,” returned McCoy, after a grave and thoughtful pause.
They chose politics as a light, agreeable subject of conversation.