“I tell you, Mr. Nash, he’d have had my two barrels first, and I’m a pretty fair shot, down’t you know?  But, look here, it’s dry work mounting guard, sow I’ll have another pull at the tankard.”

The Squire came in from guard mounting, somewhat fatigued.  He had been on the stretch mentally and physically ever since the Captain’s arrival.  “You had better go to bed, grandfather, and take Thomas with you,” he said to the veteran.

“Not a wink this blissid noight, Squoire,” replied Mr. Terry, “the smill av the powther has put new loife into my owld carcash.  The Captin can go iv he plazes.”

“Avast, there!  I say, messmate,” growled Captain Thomas, “I don’t run this mill, but my youngster’s here under hatches, and I’m a goin’ to keep watch on, watch off along of any other man.  I don’t think that o’ yours is half up to the mark, Mr. Terry.”

“Oi was thinkin’ I was a bit wake mysilf,” replied the old soldier, filling up his glass, and handing the decanter to his neighbour, who likewise improved the occasion.

“Oi’m suppawsin now, sorr,” continued the veteran, addressing the dominie, “that this is yer first apparance on shintry.”

“You are right, Mr. Terry, in your supposition.”

“An’, sorr, it’s a cridit to yeez to be shtandin’ an’ facin’ the inimy wid divel a thing in yer hand but a pishtil.  Oi moind a big sthrappin’ liftinant av ours was called Breasel, an’ sid he was discinded from the great Breasel Breck av Oirish hishtry.  Wan noight he was slapin’, whin four nagurs av Injuns kim into his tint, an’ picked the sword an’ pishtils and the unifarm aff the bid he was on.  Thin he woke up, an’ him havin’ sorra a thing to difind himself wid but a good Oirish tongue in his hid.  But it’s Tipperary the liftinant foired at the haythens, an’ it moight ha’ been grape an’ canister, for they dhropped the plundher and run for loife, all but wan that got howlt av an anhevis drawin’ plashter the liftinant had for a bile an the back av his neck, an’ wasn’t usin’ at the toime.  Someways the plashter got on to his nakid chist an’ gripped him, an’ he was that wake wid froight, the other nagurs had to carry him away.  Afther that the Injuns called Breasel by the name of Shupay, a worrud that in their spache manes the divil—­savin’ yer prisence, Mishter Wilkinson.”

“One time the Susan Thomas was at Belle Ewart loadin’ on lumber,” growled the Captain.  “Sylvanus heerd as how the Mushrats, that’s the folks acrost on t’other side of the bay, was a comin’ over to fasten him and me down in the hold and paint the schooner.  They was a goin’ to paint her The Spotted Dog, than which there’s no meaner kind o’ fish.  So, I bid Sylvanus pile a great heap of useless, green, heavy, barky slabs on top o’ the good lumber; then we took the occasion of a little wind, and stood her out to anchor a little ways from the dock.  Sure enough, when night come, the Mushrats came a hollerin’ aand yellin’.  Unfortnitly