“Have done, Harte; quit your cursed sniftherin', an' spake like a Christian; do you think you can manage to circumsniffle him agin?”
“Ay,” said Harte, “or any man that ever trod on neat's leather—barrin' one.”
“And who is that one?”
“That one, sir—that one—do you ax me who that one is?”
“Have you no ears? To be sure I do.”
“Then, Skinadre, I'll tell you—I'll tell you, sarra,”—we ought to add here, that Harte was a first-rate mimic, and was now doing a drunken man,—“I'll tell you, sarra—that person was Nelson on the top of the monument in Sackville street—no—no—I'm wrong; I could make poor ould Horace drunk any time, an' often did—an' many a turn-tumble he got off the monument at night, and the divil's own throuble I had in gettin' him up on it before mornin', bekaise you all know he'd be cashiered, or, any way, brought to coort martial for leavin' his po-po-post.”
“Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?”
“Drywig's his name,” replied Harte; “you all know one Drywig, don't you?”
“Quit your cursed stuff, Harte,” said a new speaker, named Garvey; “if you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk about it.”
“Faith, an' it'll be a nice card to play,” replied Harte, resuming his natural voice; “but at all events, if you will all drop into Garvey's lodgins and mine, to-morrow evenin', you may find him there; but don't blame me if I fail.”