over it." (Michael's tail beat a tattoo.) "Now don't be blarneyin' me.
'Tis well I'm wise to your insidyous, snugglin', heart-stealin' ways.
I'll have ye know my heart's impervious. 'Tis soaked too long this many
a day in beer. I stole you to sell you, not to be lovin' you. I
could've loved you once; but that was before me and beer was introduced.
I'd sell you for twenty quid right now, coin down, if the chance offered.
An' I ain't goin' to love you, so you can put that in your pipe 'n' smoke
it."

"But as I was about to say when so rudely interrupted by your 'fectionate
ways--"

Here he broke off to tilt to his mouth the opened bottle Kwaque handed
him. He sighed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and proceeded.

"'Tis a strange thing, son, this silly matter of beer. Kwaque, the
Methusalem-faced ape grinnin' there, belongs to me. But by my faith do I
belong to beer, bottles 'n' bottles of it 'n' mountains of bottles of it
enough to sink the ship. Dog, truly I envy you, settin' there
comfortable-like inside your body that's untainted of alcohol. I may own
you, and the man that gives me twenty quid will own you, but never will a
mountain of bottles own you. You're a freer man than I am, Mister Dog,
though I don't know your name. Which reminds me--"

He drained the bottle, tossed it to Kwaque, and made signs for him to
open the remaining one.

"The namin' of you, son, is not lightly to be considered. Irish, of
course, but what shall it be? Paddy? Well may you shake your head.
There's no smack of distinction to it. Who'd mistake you for a