They all stiffened with horror and disgust. Mrs. King wept and Josita mumbled a frightened prayer, and Carter, red and vehement, went to him and tried to take the decanter away from him. Only Honor Carmody made no sign.
I'm a son of a son of a son of a gun of a son of a Gambolier,
sang Jimsy King. He looked at every one but Honor.
Like every honest fellow, I love my lager beer——
—"And my 'skee!" he patted the decanter.
Madeline King put her arms about Honor. "Come away, my dear," she said. "Come upstairs."
"No," Jimsy protested. "Don' go 'way. Got somep'n tell you. Shee this fool Injun here? Know wha' he's goin' do? Goin' slide out'n creep down to ol' well. Says insur—insur-rectos all pretty drunk now ... pretty sleepy.... Fool Injun's goin' take three—four—'leven canteens ... bring water back for you. Not f' me! I got somep'n better. 'Sides, he'll get killed ... nice'n dead ... fancy dead ... cut ears off ... cut tongue out firs'! Not f' me! I'm goin' sleep pret' soon. Firs' I'll shing you lil' more!" Again the rasping travesty of melody:
Some die of drinkin' whisky,
Some die of drinkin' beer!
Some die of diabetes,