"Tres bien! allons! Monsieur Barney, allons!"

Unintelligible as this conversation may appear, I understood every word
of it. The naturalist had brought among his packs a small keg of
aguardiente, mezcal spirits, for the purpose of preserving any new
species of the lizard or snake tribe he should chance to fall in with.
What I heard, then, was neither more or less than a plot to steal the
keg and its contents!

My first impulse was to leap up and stop them in their design, as well
as administer a salutary rebuke to my voyageur and his red-haired
companion; but a moment's reflection convinced me that they could be
better punished in another way. I would leave them to punish
themselves.

I remembered that some days previous to our reaching the Ojo de Vaca,
the doctor had captured a snake of the adder kind, two or three species
of lizards, and a hideous-looking animal, called, in hunter phraseology,
the horned frog: the _agama cornuta_ of Texas and Mexico. These he had
immersed in the spirit for preservation. I had observed him do so, and
it was evident that neither my Frenchman nor the Irishman had any idea
of this. I adopted the resolution, therefore, to let them drink a full
bumper of the "pickle" before I should interfere.

Knowing that they would soon return, I remained where I was.

I had not long to wait upon them. In a few minutes they came up, Barney
carrying what I knew to be the devoted keg.

They sat down close to where I lay, and prising out the bung, filled the
liquor into their tin cups, and commenced imbibing.

A drouthier pair of mortals could not have been found anywhere; and at
the first draught, each emptied his cup to the bottom!

"It has a quare taste, hasn't it?" said Barney, after he had taken the
vessel from his lips.

"Oui! c'est vrai, monsieur!"

"What dev ye think it is?"

"Je ne sais quoi. It smells like one--one--"

"Is it fish, ye mane?"

"Oui! like one feesh: un bouquet tres bizarre Fichtro!"

"I suppose it's something that the Mexicans have drapped in to give the
agwardenty a flayver. It's mighty strong anyhow. It's nothing the
worse av that; but it 'ud be sorry drinkin' alongside a nate dimmyjan of
Irish patyeen. Och! mother av Moses! but that's the raal bayvaridge!"

Here the Irishman shook his head to express with more emphasis his
admiration of the native whisky.

"Well, Misther Gowdey," continued he, "whisky's whisky at any rate; and
if we can't get the b