“No—yu’ ain’t,” retorted the Sergeant ironically. “Yu’ve got th’ makin’s of a first-class jag, though. Th’ smell of yore breath’s mighty refreshin’. Yu’ wanta do what’s right when a man wearin’ th’ King’s uniform comes arahnd yore laager.”
The implied appeal to his hospitality was not lost upon the other who, arising with difficulty, walked unsteadily over to a dirty sofa and, groping underneath, dragged forth a half-full Imperial quart bottle of “Burke’s Irish.”
“Whau! Got it cached, eh? I korner,” chuckled Ellis, reaching for a glass and pouring himself out a generous libation. “Allemachtig, but I’m dry this mornin’. Wish this was good, cold tickey beer instead o’ whiskey. N’dipe manzi?”
His elderly host, relaxing back into his arm-chair again, indicated a bucket and dipper. Benton mixed his drink and raised his glass.
“Salue,” he muttered, and drank.
“Drink hael,” the other responded gruffly.
Putting down his empty glass, the Sergeant seated himself and proceeded to roll a cigarette.
“See here; look,” he began, licking the paper across. “Yu’ll be gettin’ dronk an’ doin’ some poor sucker a mischief with that gun if yu’ ain’t careful; an’ then yu’ll most likely land in die tronk on a murder charge, Myjnheer Bob Tucker.
“Say,” he continued suspiciously, as a sudden thought struck him. “Yu’ was over to th’ detachment to see me th’ day before yesterday, wasn’t yu’?”
“Ja,” answered the old man sulkily. “An’ yer ain’t never abaht w’en a feller wants yer.”