Nick was tolerably drunk, but by no means so far gone, that he had not manners enough to make a grave, and somewhat dignified gesture; which was as much as to say he was familiar with the subject.

“All go ole fashion here?” he asked, avoiding every appearance of curiosity, however.

“That does it—­that it does, Nicholas.  All goes ould enough.  The captain begins to get ould; and the missus is oulder than she used to be; and Joel’s wife looks a hundred, though she isn’t t’irty; and Joel, himself, the spalpeen—­he looks—­” a gulp at the jug stopped the communication.

“Dirty, too?” added the sententious Tuscarora, who did not comprehend more than half his friend said.

“Ay, dir-r-ty—­he’s always that.  He’s a dirthy fellow, that thinks his yankee charactur is above all other things.”

Nick’s countenance became illuminated with an expression nowise akin to that produced by rum, and he fastened on his companion one of his fiery gazes, which occasionally seemed to penetrate to the centre of the object looked at.

“Why pale-face hate one anoder?  Why Irishman don’t love yankee?”

“Och! love the crathure, is it?  You’d betther ask me to love a to’d”—­ for so Michael would pronounce the word ‘toad.’  “What is there to love about him, but skin and bone!  I’d as soon love a skiliten.  Yes—­an immortal skiliten.”

Nick made another gesture, and then he endeavoured to reflect, like one who had a grave business in contemplation.  The Santa Cruz confused his brain, but the Indian never entirely lost his presence of mind; or never, at least, so long as he could either see or walk.

“Don’t like him”—­rejoined Nick.  “Like anybody?”

“To be sure I does—­I like the capt’in—­och, he’s a jontleman—­ and I likes the missus; she’s a laddy—­and I likes Miss Beuly, who’s a swate young woman—­and then there’s Miss Maud, who’s the delight of my eyes.  Fegs, but isn’t she a crathure to relish!”

Mike spoke like a good honest fellow, as he was at the bottom, with all his heart and soul.  The Indian did not seem pleased, but he made no answer.

“You’ve been in the wars then, Nick!” asked the Irishman, after a short pause.

“Yes—­Nick been chief ag’in—­take scalps.”

“Ach!  That’s a mighty ugly thrade!  If you’d tell ’em that in Ireland, they’d not think it a possibility.”

“No like fight in Ireland, hah?”

“I’ll not say that—­no, I’ll not say that; for many’s the jollification at which the fighting is the chafe amusement.  But we likes thumping on the head—­not skinning it.”

“That your fashion—­my fashion take scalp.  You thump; I skin—­which best?”

“Augh! skinnin’ is a dreadthful operation; but shillaleh-work comes nately and nat’rally.  How many of these said scalps, now, may ye have picked up, Nick, in yer last journey?”

“T’ree—­all man and woman—­no pappoose.  One big enough make two; so call him four.”