Peter Skerrett, to distract himself from these anxieties, though he denied that he felt any or was concerned for the Budlongs, otherwise than as an amateur of scandals, took Sir Comeguys under his protection. Like a European courier, he would allow no one to cheat that ingenuous youth but himself. Thus there is a Skerretty congruity in the wild legends of American life which luridly light the pages of “Tracks in the Trail of the Bear and the Buffalo.” Gyas Cutus and Cloanthus, when they were off duty with Miss Julia Wilkes, were constantly on the watch for Sir Com. They liked to be seen with the baronet, and were ardent to “sell” him, as they called it. But these mercantile transactions, more satisfactory to the seller than to the sold, Peter Skerrett interfered with.
“You’d better take care, Guy, you and old Clo,” he said, to the pair of pleasant knaves. “This son of perfidious Albion may be green, but he is plucky and you may get your heads punched. That wouldn’t do, because they are soft and the indentures caused by such punching would remain and make it hard to fit you with hats. Abstain and be wise!”
“Do let us have a shy at him, Peter,” pleaded Gyas. “His ancestors and mine fought at Bunker Hill—I wish to revenge the death of General Warren.”
“Your ancestors?” replied Peter. “Who told you that you ever had any? They may have been tadpoles or worse at that heroic period. Certainly, your grandfather, the first human Gyas Cutus I ever heard of, was only a grade above the tadpole when he kept the Frog Huddle Pond House, near what was then the village of Newark in Jersey. We allow you to associate with us because you’re not such a very bad fellow when you’re properly bullied; but don’t try to come the ancestor dodge—except in that neat and evidently inherited way you have of mixing drinks.”
“Well, don’t be too hard on a feller,” said Guy. “Come and make it seven bells—tomar las once, as the Dagoes say—I learned that from a sailor yesterday aboard of Blinders’ yacht.”
“You’re learning to mar all hours with tipple. I shall have to whisper to the fair Julia, unless you swear off,” threatened Peter.
“I swear enough, off and on, don’t I, Clo? But the tipple tap won’t stop. I believe I’ll knock off everything but bourbon, as you told me to do before.”
“Do,” said Peter encouragingly. “The deterioration in our race is completely checked since native wines and bourbon came in. Take plenty of bourbon, and if you ever have a son, possibly he may have a beard. Think of that!”