“He’ll ha thee, Joe—he’ll ha thee!”
“Nay, nay, maister; I be too old in the tooth for he; but it beant thy business, maister.”
“No,” said Bumpkin, as he turned away, “it beant.”
Then Joe resumed his play. Now it happened that as the Sergeant smacked his lips when he took his occasional sip of the fragrant grog, expressive of the highest relish, it awakened a great curiosity in Wurzel’s mind as to its particular flavour. The glass was never far from his nose and he had long enjoyed the extremely tempting odour. At last, as he was not invited to drink by Sergeant Goodtale, he could contain himself no longer, but made so bold as to say:—
“Pardner, med I jist taste this ere? I never did taste sich a thing.”
“Certainly, partner,” said the Sergeant, pushing the tumbler, which was about three-parts full. “What’s the game now?”
“Ten-one,” said Outofwork.
“One’s all, then,” said the Sergeant.
Joe took the tumbler, and after looking into it for a second or two as though he were mentally apostrophizing it, placed the glass to his lips.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the Sergeant.