“He says Nemoyah!—­not to give the bottles to Many Drunks, as when he gets full of skutiawpwe he raises hell on th’ reserve, an’ there’s no livin’ with him.  Says he beats up his squaw an’ starts in to scalp th’ dogs an’ chickens.”

“Shtop ut!” bawled Slavin, “d’ju hear, Yorkey? . . . shtoolin’ th’ nitchie on tu commit a felony an’ th’ like, thataways!” He sniffed disgustedly. “Skutiawpwe an’ squaws! . . . blarney me sowl! but ye’ve a quare idea av a josh.  ‘Tis a credit y’are tu th’ Ould Counthry, an’ no error.  I do not wondher ye left ut.”

“Sh-sh!” said that gentleman soothingly, “coarsely put, Burke! coarsely put! . . .  Say Wine and Women, guv’nor!  Wine and Women!  If you were in India, Burke, they’d make you Bazaar-Sergeant—­put you in charge of the morals of the regiment.  Both items are all right—­always providing you don’t get a lady like Misthress Lee for a chaser.  How’d you like to be in Nick’s shoes?  What ‘shteps’ would you take?”

Slavin stared at his tormentor, blankly, a moment.  “Shteps?” he ejaculated sharply, “fwhat shteps?” . . .  He leant back with a fervent sigh and softly rubbed his huge hands together.  “Long wans, avick! . . . eyah, d——­d long wans, begorrah!”

Many Drunks now realizing that he was merely the victim of a joke, scowled in turn upon Yorke.  Muttering something to MacDavid he backed up against the wall and, squatting down, proceeded philosophically to fill his pipe.

“What’s that he said?” queried Yorke of the interpreter, “I couldn’t catch it.”

The latter grinned.  “He says—­of all the white men he’s ever met in his time, Stamixotokon[1] and my self are the only ones he’s ever known to tell th’ truth.”

“It’s my belief the beggar’d flirt with Mrs. Lee, himself, if he only got the chance” said Redmond laconically, “d’you recollect that day he picked her parcel up for her—­how nice she was to him?”

“Eyah,” said Slavin darkly, “I remimber ut!  That man”—­he darted an accusing finger at Yorke—­“wud thry tu come th’ Don Jewan wid anything wid a shkirrt on—­from coast to coast. Flirrt?  Yeh’re tellin’ th’ trute, bhoy, yeh’re tellin’ th’ trute!  He’d a-made a good undhershtudy for ould Nobby Guy, down Regina.”

He settled himself comfortably and lit his pipe.  “Eyah, th’ good ould days, th’ good ould days!” he resumed reminiscently, between puffs, “Hark now till I tell ye th’ tale av ould Nobby!”

“Is that the man they used to Josh about, down Regina?” enquired Redmond.  “Used to say ’I’m a man of few words’?”

Slavin nodded affirmatively.  “That’s him, Sarjint in charrge av th’ town station he was—­years back.  This is—­whin I was Corp’ril at headquarthers.  A foine big roosther av a man was Nobby, wid a mighty pleasant way wid um—­’specially wid th’ ladies.  Wan night—­blarney me sowl!  Will I iver forghet ut?  Nobby ‘phones up th’ Gyard-room reporthin’ th’