When the ladies had retired Mr. Rooney stretched his legs beneath the table and his body on the chair until his chin was nearly on a level with the table.
“Now, Mickey, in with the hot water, and let the girl put a kettle under the pump. Are ye fond of sperrits, major?”
“Well, the fact is that spirits don’t agree with me.”
“Oh, then, Mickey Casey has some that will oil the curls of yer wig for ye.”
“When I was quartered at Dum Dum,” observed the major hastily, “there happened to be a very rollicking, gay, charming fellow of our mess, who shared my bungalow with me—the compound being in common. One morning I was engaged at chotohassary and—”
“What the dickens is chotohassary?”
“Breakfast, Mr. Rooney.”
“I never heard it called by that name before. Go on, you old son of a gun.”
“Well, sir,” continued the major somewhat stiffly, “I had occasion to call my kitmagar.”
“Kit who?” asked Tim.