sowl, ye understand, Nicholas. A human crathure widout a sowl, is what
I call a heretick; and none of the O'Hearns ever came to _that_."

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"--