“A fool, too—is he not?” said Lovibond.
“Ay—a damned fool!” said Davy out of the depths of his throat, and then he laughed and reeled again, and gripped at Lovibond’s sleeve to keep himself erect.
“Helloa!” he cried, in another voice; “I’m rocking full like a ship with a rolling cargo and my head is as thick as Taubman’s brewery on boiling day.”
He was a changed man from that instant onward. An angel of God that had been breathing on his soul was driven out by a devil of despair. The conviction had settled on him that he was a dastard. Lovibond remembered the story of his father? and trembled for what he had done.
Davy stumbled back through the window into the room, singing lustily—
O, Molla Char—aine, where got you your gold?
Lone, lone, you have le—eft me here,
O, not in the Curragh, deep under the mo—old,
Lone, lo—one, and void of cheer,
Lone, lo—one, and void of cheer.
His cronies received him with shouts of welcome. “You’ll be walking the crank yet, Capt’n,” said they, in mockery of his unsteady gait. His altered humor suited them. “Cards,” they cried; “cards—a game for good luck.”
“Hould hard,” said Davy. “Fair do’s. Send for the landlord first.”
“What for?” they asked. “To stop us? He’ll do that quick enough.”
“You’ll see,” said Davy. “Willie,” he shouted, “bring up the skipper.”