“Little sick—­soon be well—­then shoot.”

“I wonder now whether I could howld me gun straight enough to drop a buffler at ten paces.  There sits a bird in that tree that is grinning at me.  I’ll t’ach him bitter manners.”

The gun was discharged, the bullet passing within a few inches of the head of the Indian, who sprung back with a grunt.

“A purty good shot,” laughed Teddy; “but it would be rayther tiresome killing game, being I could only hit them as run behind me, and being I can’t saa in that direction, I’ll give over the idaa; and turn me undivided attention to fishing.  Ah, divil a bit of difference is it to the fish, whin a worm is on the right ind, whether a drunken man or a gintleman is at the other.”

The Indian manifested a readiness to assist every project of the Irishman, and he now advised him to fish by all means, urging that they should proceed to the river at once.  But Teddy insisted upon going to a small creek near at hand.  The savage strongly demurred, but finally yielded, and the two set out, making their way somewhat after the fashion of a yoke of oxen.

Upon reaching the stream, Teddy, instead of pausing upon the bank, continued walking on until he was splashing up to his waist in water.  Had it not been for the prompt assistance of the Indian, the poor fellow most probably would have had his earthly career terminated.  This incident partially sobered Teddy, and made him ashamed of his condition.  He saw the savage was by no means so far gone as himself, and he bewailed his foolishness in unmeasured terms.

“Who knows but Master Harvey has gone to the village, and Miss Cora stands in the door this minute, ’xpacting this owld spalpaan?”

“No go till arternoon,” said the savage.

“What time might it be jist now?”

“’Tain’t noon yit—­soon be—­bimeby.”

“It’s all the same; I shan’t be fit to go home afore night, whin I might bist stay away altogether.  And you, Mr. Copperskin, was the maans of gittin’ me in this trouble.”

“Me make you drink him?” asked the savage.  “You not ax for jug, eh?  You not want him?”

“Yes, begorrah, it was me own fault.  Whisky is me waikness.  Its illigant perfume always sits me wild fur it.  Mister Harvey was belaving, whin he brought me here, that I wouldn’t be drinking any of the vile stuff, for the good rais’n that I couldn’t git none; but, what’ll he say now?  Niver was I drunker at Donnybrook, and only once, an’ that was at me father’s fourteenth weddin’.”

“Don’t want more?”

“NO!” thundered Teddy.  “I hope I may niver see nor taste another drop so long as I live.  I here asserts me ancient honor agin, an’ I defy the jug, ye spalpeen of a barbarian what knows no better.”  Teddy’s reassertion of dignity was very ludicrous, for a tree had to support him as he spoke; but he evidently was in earnest.

“Neber gib it—­if don’t want it.”