"'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden like two men in a play.
"'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I.
"'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he.
"'An' how would it be for taste?' says I.
"Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man wid the ague.
"'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o' the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was lowerin' himself to deceit."
"You were a nice pair," I said.
"'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned in a betther."
"Did it come off?" I asked.
"To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.