“Ah! bad skran to ye, Losh!—Hould on, Moses, ye fat villain. Lave me wan mouthful, jist wan, to kape me from givin’ up the ghost intirely.”
A shout of laughter greeted the advent of Bryan’s voice, but it was nothing to the peals that burst forth on the appearance of that individual in propria persona. To say that he was totally dishevelled would convey but half the truth. Besides being covered and clotted with mud, he was saturated with water from head to foot, his clothes rent in a most distressing manner, and his features quite undistinguishable.
“Why, Bryan, what ails you? Where have you been?” inquired Stanley, in a tone of sympathy.
“Bin, is it? Sorra wan o’ me knows where I’ve bin. It’s mysilf is glad to be sartin I’m here, anyhow.”
“I’m glad you’re certain of it,” said Frank, “for if it were not for the sound of your voice, I should doubt it.”
“Ah monsieur,” said La Roche, “make your mind easy on dat. No von but Bryan ever regard de kettle dat way.”
“Taizy voo, ye petit varmint,” said Bryan, approaching the said kettle, and smiling rapturously through the mud that encrusted his face on beholding its contents. Without waiting to change his garments the hungry blacksmith began supper, having first, however, directed attention to the bag which he had brought in. From this bag La Roche now extracted about a dozen trout, some of which were of great size—especially one, whose bulk exceeded that of the large salmon.
“There’s plinty more where thim comed from,” said Bryan, through a mouthful of venison; “but I’ll tell ye ov it afther supper.”
“Ah, true! don’t let us interrupt him just now,” said Stanley. “In the meantime, François, since you seem to be about done, tell us what you have seen, and let us hear what you have to say of the country.”
François having lighted his pipe, cleared his throat and began:—