Pete began to drink. “How do, Faddy? Taking joy of you, Juan. Are you in life, Thom! Half a glass of rum will do no harm, boys. Not the drink at all—just the good company, you know.”
He hailed the women also, but they were less willing to be treated. “I'd have more respect for my quarterly ticket, sir,” said Betsy—she was a Primitive, with her husband on the “Planbeg.” “There's a hole in your pocket, Capt'n; stop it up with your fist, man,” said Liza—she was a gombeen woman, and when she got a penny in her hand it was a prisoner for life. “Chut! woman,” said Pete, “what's the good book say ing? 'Riches have wings;' let the birds fly then,” and off he went, reeling and tottering, and laughing his formidable laugh.
Pete grew merry. Rooting up the remains of the fishermen's band, he hired them to accompany him through the fair. They were three little musicians, now exceedingly drunk, and their duty was to play “Hail, Isle of Man,” as he went swaggering along in front of them.
“Hail, Isle of Man,
Swate ocean lan',
I love thy sea-girt border.”
“Play up, Jackie.”
“The barley sown,
Potatoes down,
We'll get our boats in order.”
Thus he forged through the fair, capering, laughing, shouting protests over his shoulder when the tipsy music failed, pretending to be very drunk, trying to show that he was carrying on, that he was going it, that he hadn't a second thought, but watching everything for all that, studying every face, and listening to the talk of everybody.
“Whips of money at him, Liza—whips of it—millions, they're saying.”—“He's spending it like flitters then. The Manx chaps isn't fit for fortunes—no, they aren't. I wonder in the world what sort of wife there's at him. I don't 'low my husband the purse. Three ha'pence is enough to be giving any man at once.”—“Wife, you're saying? Don't you know, woman?” Then some whispering.
“Bass, boy—more bass, I tell thee.”
“We then sought nex'
The soothing sex,
Our swatearts at Port Erin.”