"I should think it was! Come! won't you liquor."
"Thank you! I've just taken something."
"No matter. Come along, my good fellow, and try something more." And he arose, as he spoke, and moved towards the bar.
Martin was not the man to refuse a drink at any time, so he followed to the counter.
"What'll you take? Whisky, rum, gin, brandy, or spirits? Any thing, so it's strong enough to drink to old acquaintanceship. Ha! my boy?" And he leered in Martin's face with a sinister expression, and slapped him familiarly on the shoulder.
"Brandy," said Martin. "Brandy let it be! Nothing like brandy! Set out your pure old Cogniac! Toby. A drink for the gods!"
"Prime stuff! that. It warms you to the very soles of your feet!" added the, man after he had turned off his glass. "Don't you say so, Martin?"
"Yes! and through your stockings, to your very shoes!"
"Hat ha! ha! He! he!" laughed the man with a forced effort. "Why,
Bill Martin, you're a wit!"
"It ain't Bill, it's the brandy," said the bar-keeper, with more truth than jest.