"Of course I will. Where's the document?"
"Here it is,"—displaying a sheet of paper with sundry appropriate devices, upon which was printed in conspicuous letters,
"We whose names—," &c.
"That's very pretty, aint it, Ike?" said Jim, or James Braddock, with a mock seriousness of tone and manner.
"O, yes—very beautiful."
"Just see here," ran on Jim, pointing to the vignette over the pledge.—"This spruce chap, swelled out with cold-water until just ready to burst, and still pouring in more, is our friend Malcom here, I suppose."
A loud laugh followed this little hit, which seemed to the company exceedingly humorous. But Malcom took it all in good part, and retorted by asking Braddock who the wretched looking creature was with a bottle in his hand, and three ragged children, and a pale, haggard, distressed woman, following after him.
"Another cold-water man, I suppose, "Jim Braddock replied; but neither his laugh nor the laugh of his cronies was so hearty as before.
"O, no. That's a little mistake into which you have fallen, "Malcom said, smiling. "He is one of your firewater men. Don't you see how he has been scorched with it, inside and out. Now, did you ever see such a miserable looking creature? And his poor children—and his wife! But I will say nothing about them. The picture speaks for itself."
"Here's a barrel, mount him up, and let us have a temperance speech!" cried the keeper of the grog-shop, coming from behind his counter, and mingling with the group.