“A sort of a Manxman crossed with a bat. Got no tail to speak of, but there's plenty of ears at him. A handy sort of a dog, only a bit spoiled in his childhood. Not fit for much company anyway, and no more notion of dacent behaviour than my ould shoe. Down, Dempster, down.”
It was Pete. He was greeted with loud welcomes, and soon filled the room all round with the steaming odour of spirits and water.
“You've the Manx tongue at you still, Mr. Quilliam,” said Jonaique; “and you're calling the dog Dempster; what's that for at all?”
“For sake of the ould island, Mr. Jelly, and for the straight he's like Dempster Mylrea when he's a bit crooked,” said Pete.
“The old man's dead, sir,” said John the Clerk.
“You don't say?” said Pete.
“Yes, though; the sun went down on him a Wednesday. The drink, sir, the drink! I've been cutting a sod of his grave to-day.”
“And who's to be Dempster now?” asked Pete. “Who are they putting in for it?”
“Well,” said John the Clerk, “they're talking and talking, and some's saying this one and others that one; but the most is saying your ould friend Philip Christian.”
“I knew it—I always said it,” shouted Pete; “best man in the island, bar none. Oh, he'll not deceave me.”