“Wansfell! Why do you call me that?” asked Adam. How curiously the name struck his ear!
“Ain’t thot your noime?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Wal, all right. Will yez hev a dhrink?” Regan produced a brown bottle and handed it to Adam.
They walked on up the canyon, Regan with his short, stunted legs being hard put to it to keep up with Adam’s long strides. The Irishman would attach himself to Adam, that was evident; and he was a most talkative and friendly fellow. Whenever he got out of breath he halted to draw out the bottle. The liquor in an ordinary hour would have befuddled Adam’s wits, but now it only heated his blood.
“Wansfell, if yez ain’t the dom’dest foinest young feller in these diggin’s!” ejaculated Regan.
“Thank you, friend. But don’t call me that queer name. Mine’s Adam.”
“A-dom?” echoed Regan. “Phwat a hell of a noime! Adom an’ Eve, huh? I seen yez with thot black-eyed wench. She’s purty.”
They finished the contents of the bottle and proceeded on their way. Regan waxed warmer in his regard for Adam and launched forth a strong argument in favor of their going on a prospecting trip.
“Yez would make a foine prospector an’ pard,” he said. “Out on the desert yez are free an’ happy, b’gorra! No place loike the desert, pard, whin yez come to know it! Thar’s air to breathe an’ long days wid the sun on yer back an’ noights whin a mon knows shlape. Mebbe we’ll hev the luck to foind Pegleg Smith’s lost gold mine.”