the short man.

"Botheration," exclaimed his irascible companion. "Bother them all--the
Welsh Indians and the Welsh English."

[Illustration: "Faith, my legs ain't better than yours."]

We saw that hunger had made the poor fellows rather quarrelsome, so we
kindly interfered with a tremendous war-whoop. The fat one closed his
eyes, and allowed himself to fall down, while his fellow in misfortune
rose up in spite of the state of his legs.

"Come," roared he, "come, ye rascally red devils, do your worst without
marcy, for I am lame and hungry."

There was something noble in his words and pathetic in the action.
Roche, putting his hand on his shoulder, whispered some Irish words in
his ear, and the poor fellow almost cut a caper. "Faith," he said, "if
you are not a Cork boy you are the devil; but devil or no, for the sake
of the old country, give us something to eat--to me and that poor Welsh
dreamer. I fear your hellish yell has taken the life out of him."

Such was not the case. At the words "something to eat," the fellow
opened his eyes with a stare, and exclaimed--

"The Welsh Indians, by St. David!"

We answered him with a roar of merriment that rather confused him, and
his companion answered--