Willie Quarrie went out on his errand, and Davy called for a song. The Crier gave one line three times, and broke down as often. “I linger round this very spot—I linger round this ve—ery spot—I linger round this very—”
“Don’t do it any longer, mate,” cried Davy. “Your song is like Kinvig’s first sermon. The ould man couldn’t get no farther till his tex’, so he gave it out three times—‘I am the Light of the World—I am the Light of the World—I am the Light—’ ‘Maybe so, brother,’ says ould Kennish, in the pew below; ‘but you want snuffing. Come down out of that.’”—
Loud peals of wild laughter followed, and Davy’s own laughter rang out wildest and maddest of all. Then up came the landlord with his round face smiling. What was the Captain’s pleasure?
“Landlord,” cried Davy, “tell your men to fill up these glasses, and then send me your bill for all I owe you, and make it cover everything I’ll want till to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow will do for the bill, Captain,” said the landlord. “I’m not afraid that you’ll cut your country.”
“Aren’t you, though? Then the more fool you,” said Davy. “Send it up, my shining sunflower; send it up.”
“Very well, Captain, just to humor you,” said the landlord, backing himself out with his head in his chest.
“Why, where are you going to, Capt’n?” cried many voices at once.
“Wherever there’s a big cabbage growing, boys,” said Davy.
The bill came up, and Willie Quarrie examined it. “Shocking!” cried Willie; “it’s really shocking! Shillings apiece for my breakfas’es—now that’s what I call a reg’lar piece of ambition.”