oar of
Plymouth," said McCoy, "or at the Swan wi' the two throttles, in--in--I
forget where, I feel--I feel--like--like--here's your health again, Matt
Quintal. Give us your flipper, man. You're not a bad feller, if you
wasn't given to grumpin' so much."

Quintal's amiability, even when roused to excess by drink, was easily
dissipated. The free remarks of his comrade did not tend to increase
it, but he said nothing, and refreshed himself with another sip.

"I really do think," continued McCoy, looking at his companion with an
intensity of feeling which is not describable, "I really do think that--
that--when I think o' that Blue Boar, I could a'most become poetical."

"If you did," growled Quintal, "you would not be the first that had
become a big fool on a worse subjec'."

"I shay, Matt Quintal," returned the other, who was beginning to talk
rather thickly, so powerful was the effect of the liquor on his
unaccustomed nerves; "I shay, ole feller, you used to sing well once.
Come g-give us a stave now."

"Bah!" was Quintal's reply, with a look of undisguised contempt.

"Jus-so. 'Xactly my opinion about it. Well, as you won't sing, I'll
give you a ditty myself."

Hereupon McCoy struck up a song, which, being deficient in taste, while
its execution was defective as well as tuneless, did not seem to produce
much effect on Quintal. He bore it with equanimity, until McCoy came to
a note so far beyond his powers that he broke into a shriek.

"Come, get some more drink," growled his comrade, pointing to the still;
"it must be ready by this time."

"Shum more drink!" exclaimed McCoy, with a look of indignant surprise.
Then, sliding into a smile of imbecile good-humour, "You shl-'ave-it, my
boy, you shl-'ave-it."

He unfixed the bottle with an unsteady hand, and winking with dreadful
solemnity, filled up his companion's cup. Then he filled his own, and
sat down to resume his song. But Quintal could stand no more of it; he
ordered his comrade to "stop his noise."

"Shtop my noise!" exclaimed McCoy, with a look of lofty disdain.

"Yes, stop it, an' let's talk."

"Well, I'm w-willin' t' talk," returned McCoy, after a grave and
thoughtful pause.

They chose politics as a light, agreeable subject of conversation.

"Now, you see, 's my 'pinion, Matt, that them coves up't th' Admiralty
don't know no more how to guv'n this country than they knows how to work
a Turk's head on a man-rope."

"P'r'aps not," replie