“She don’t know nothin’ about ta mess herself,” said Peter, “but she supposes she eats meat and drinks wine every tay, which was more tan she did as a poy. But she’d rather live on oatmeal and drink whiskey, and be a poor shentlemen, than be an officher like M’Clure, and tine with the Queen, Cot bless her.”
“And the old pipe, then, was all you got for your share, was it?” says I.
“No, Sir,” said Tom, “it warn’t. One day, when I was nearly well, Betty came to me—
“‘Oh, Tom,’ said she, ‘I have such good news for you.’
“‘What is it?’ sais I, ‘are we going to have another general engagement?’
“‘Oh, dear, I hope not,’ she said. ‘You have had enough of fighting for one while, and you are always so misfortunate.’
“‘Well, what is it?’ sais I.
“‘Will you promise me not to tell?’
“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I will.’
“‘That’s just what you said the first time I kissed you. Do get out,’ she replied, ‘and you promise not to lisp a word of it to Rory M’Clure? or he’ll claim it, as he did that orse, and, Tom, I caught that orse, and he was mine. It was a orrid, nasty, dirty, mean trick that.’