“Why, in troth, I can’t complain, Mr. Malcomson; here’s your health, sir, and after that we must drink another.”

“Mony thanks, Andrew.”

“Hang it, I’m not Andrew:  that sounds like Scotch; I’m Andy, man alive.”

“Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o’ that, what the de’il waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?”

“Bekaise I wouldn’t like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow.”

“Weel, Andrew—­Andy—­I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered Scotch, muckle more might be expeck’ frae you than, being an Irisher as you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas—­”

“Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one.”

“Weel, but how is that now, Andy?  Here’s to ye in the meantime; and ’am no savin’ but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o’ the stamach, man.”

“You mane by that the pit o’ the stomach, I suppose.”

“Ay, just that.”

“Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o’ the stomach—­no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the pratie bag, you don’t forget the pocket.”

“And what for no, Andy? why the de’il war pockets made, gin they wanna to be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?”

“Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate ye—­flog you hollow.  You Scotchmen take so much time in givin’ an answer that an Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake.  You think first and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn’t ’for what we are to receive’ you ought to say ’may the Lord make us thankful, but for what we are to lose’—­that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we ought to be thankful for losin’ it.”

“Weel, man, here’s to ye, Andy—­ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar’ gude.”

“Why,” replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, “it is.  Mr. Malcomson, the right stuff.  But, as I was sayin’, you Scotchmen think first and spake afther—­one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had.  Now, don’t you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty of time to think—­here’s God bless us all, anyhow—­but that’s the way an Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin’ an answer; for if he fails by word o’ mouth, why, whatever he’s deficient in he makes up by the fist or cudgel; and there’s our three Irish answers for one Scotch.”

“Weel, man, a’ richt—­a’ richt—­we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht ye promised to gie us another toast—­de’il be frae my; saul, man, but I’ll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this.”

“Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense put it out o’ my head.  And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it I isn’t daicent.