“Well, do ye know what I’m goin’ te tell ye? I wud just allow William was a middlin’ polished boy, so he was. He subsidised the Pope o’ Rome, did he? Man, oh! Do ye tell me that? That bates all, and him goin’ to take just twiste what he let on.”
Old Tummus unquestionably was absolutely sober at the beginning of our interview, and had remained “dry” during it, but he now became gradually intoxicated with what had appeared to him to be his hero’s splendid cunning. The thought of a genius which could overreach someone else in a bargain rose to his brain like champagne. He swayed on his feet; he ran his words into each other; he assumed a gaiety of manner and expression quite unusual to him.
I watched him lurch down the walk, and then pause on the bridge. He supported himself by the wooden railing, which creaked as he swayed to and fro, and addressed the stream and the trees—
“Do ye know what I’m goin’ to tell ye? I wud just allow he was a middlin’ polished boy—so he was.”
The Game Leg.
From “The Furry Farm.”
By K. F. Purdon.