"O, yes.—Give us a temperance speech!" rejoined Jim Braddock, not at all sorry to get a good excuse for giving up his examination of the pledge, which had revived in his mind some associations of not the pleasantest character in the world.
"No objection at all," replied the ready Washingtonian, mounting the rostrum which the tavern-keeper had indicated, to the no small amusement of the company, and the great relief of Jim Braddock, who began to feel that the laugh was getting on the wrong side of his mouth, as he afterwards expressed it.
"Now for some rare fun!" ejaculated one of the group that gathered around the whiskey-barrel upon which Malcom stood.
"This is grand sport!" broke in another.
"Take your text, Mr. Preacher!" cried a third.
"O yes, give us a text and a regular-built sermon!" added a fourth, rubbing his hands with great glee.
"Very well," Malcom replied, with good humour. "Now for the text."
"Yes, give us the text," ran around the circle.
"My text will be found in Harry Arnold's grog-shop, Main street, three doors from the corner. It is in these words:—'Whiskey-barrel.' Upon this text I will now, with your permission, make a few remarks."
Then holding up his pledge and laying his finger upon the wretched being there represented as the follower after strong drink, he went on—